Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Then perhaps you prefer Lydia?”

  “I prefer you!” Delacorte tightened his grip on her wrist.

  Solange nodded almost imperceptibly toward Farlow. The huge, burly bouncer, who resembled the Gypsies’ performing bear, ambled toward the bar.

  “Take your hand off the lady, mister,” Farlow said in a quiet, deadly voice.

  Lance Delacorte hesitated, then slowly uncurled his fingers from Solange’s wrist, exposing angry red marks where his grip had bruised her flesh.

  “You want I should throw him out, Miss Solange?” Farlow asked.

  She stared at the lieutenant for a moment. He seemed subdued now. She didn’t think he would give her any more trouble. Besides, he had been waiting a long time. She waved Farlow away.

  “No. Thank you. I’m sure Lieutenant Delacorte will behave himself now.”

  Charlotte felt queer—woozy. The full impact of what she was about to do was just beginning to seep into her consciousness. Squeezed in next to Phaedra on the front seat of the caravan, she hung on for dear life as Petronovich whipped his horses into a gallop. She prayed that a wheel would come off and wreck the wagon. Maybe she would be killed in the accident and wouldn’t have to go through with this. Her earlier facade of brave self-assurance fled as they approached Leavenworth.

  They hit a bump, which nearly unseated all three of them. Petronovich and Phaedra whooped and laughed. They were having a fine time. Charlotte sat in silence, utterly miserable.

  “How are you doing, little mouse?” Petronovich asked, still laughing.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Charlotte replied stiffly.

  “She will loosen up when we get there, Petronovich. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried. I only pity the poor gajo who will pay good money for her bad-tempered bites and scratches. As I remember, this one is anything but willing in bed.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks burned and her stomach twisted uncomfortably. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of right now was that night in her hotel room with Petronovich.

  “Mateo didn’t seem to have any complaints,” Phaedra taunted.

  “Ah, but the moon madness was upon him at the time, love. Under those circumstances, he could have found pleasure with one of his mares.”

  Charlotte ached with embarrassment. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that Petronovich knew of her night with Mateo. Did everyone in the familia know? The thought was mortifying.

  The caravan rumbled into Shawnee Street. The broad thoroughfare was lined with hard-ridden horses tied up at the hitching posts. Loud music blared from the saloon. Inside, people were singing, laughing, and Charlotte thought she heard a woman’s muffled screams. The hair rose on the back of her neck.

  “Where are we going?” she ventured, wondering why she hadn’t thought to ask before.

  “To the Star of the West,” answered Petronovich. “The best bawdy house in town. Looks like a good night, too. Solange must have her hands full with ail those customers.”

  “A bawdy house?” Charlotte gasped. “But I thought…”

  “You thought what?” Phaedra challenged her with a stony stare.

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte whispered, looking down to avoid the other woman’s gaze. “I thought there was a gentleman you knew and you were taking me to his home and that it would all be very discreet.”

  Both Phaedra and Petronovich howled with laughter, making Charlotte feel even worse.

  “Whoring is not a discreet profession,” Phaedra said coldly. “You go where the men and the money are.”

  “Don’t call it ‘whoring,’ love,” Petronovich added sarcastically. “Do you want to offend the little gajo’s delicate sensibilities? Call it ‘sacrificing in the name of love.’ After all, she is doing this for Mateo.”

  “Right,” Phaedra said, laughing, “for Mateo! I can hardly wait to see the pleasure on his face when you give him the gold and tell him how you earned it.”

  Charlotte wanted to believe Phaedra’s words, but she didn’t like her tone. There was something ugly and menacing in Phaedra’s voice. Maybe this whole thing was a setup to degrade her and get even. Certainly neither Phaedra nor Petronovich had any feelings of friendship toward her.

  “I’ve changed my mind!” Charlotte said suddenly. “Turn the horses back, please.”

  More laughter from the two of them greeted her plea. Petronovich jumped down to tie the team to the hitching post outside the saloon. Hearing the bells on the Gypsy caravan, several customers had already come outside to take a look. Charlotte noticed that one dark-haired cavalry officer seemed particularly interested in the bizarre trio. He approached Petronovich and spoke to him quietly. Gold changed hands. The lieutenant came to the wagon and motioned for Charlotte to get down.

  “Come with me,” he commanded.

  Charlotte shrank away from him, but Phaedra gave her a shove. She lost her balance and fell into the strange man’s arms. He held her for a few moments, staring into her wide, frightened eyes. She was very aware of her breasts crushed against his hard chest in the punishing embrace. He was holding her so tightly that she had difficulty breathing. Her head felt light.

  A slow smile spread over his face. “Yes, this one will do fine,” he said to Petronovich.

  The next moment, Lance Delacorte had his arm locked around Charlotte’s waist and was dragging her toward the swinging doors of the saloon. The other men parted to let them enter but stood gawking and sniggering.

  “No! Please, let me go,” she cried. “This is a mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake. I know what you Gypsy women come to town for. I’ve already paid your man… probably more than you’re worth.”

  “Let me go! He’s not my man. And I’m not a Gypsy.”

  “But you are a woman. That’s all I care about at the moment.”

  As Lieutenant Delacorte pushed Charlotte into the saloon to face the curious stares of a multitude of gaping cowboys and soldiers, she heard Phaedra call out with a laugh, “Remember! It’s for Mateo.”

  Solange didn’t like the looks of this at all. She didn’t recognize the woman in Gypsy garb whom Lance Delacorte had hauled in off the street, but she had a feeling the pretty blonde was not a Gypsy, not a prostitute, and not a willing partner for the lieutenant’s bed.

  “Give me a key, Solange,” Delacorte demanded.

  “You know all the rooms are occupied right now, Lieutenant.”

  The ploy didn’t work. “Yours isn’t! The key dammit!”

  Solange hesitated a moment longer, staring at Lance Delacorte’s companion. The girl was wild-eyed with fear. She seemed to be in a daze. Maybe she was drunk. She appeared not to know where she was or what was happening.

  “Mademoiselle, are you all right?” Solange asked Charlotte.

  “Everything’s fine, Solange,” Delacorte cut in. “Just give me the goddamn key before I take this place apart.”

  “I would prefer you wait for one of my own girls, Lieutenant. It’s not good to bring strange women in off the streets. It’s against the house policy.”

  “To hell with your policy. Either you give me that key right this minute, or I swear to you, Solange, I’ll take her right over there on top of that poker table! How does that fit in with house policy?”

  To prove he meant the words, Delacorte yanked the peasant blouse from one of Charlotte’s shoulders, exposing a creamy expanse of breast. His action was greeted by hoots and whistles of approval. A gang of cowboys moved in, egging him on:

  “Go to it, soldier boy!”

  “Yeah, show us your stuff!”

  “Ride ’em, cowboy! Whoo-e-e-e!”

  Charlotte felt very odd. She was aware of everything that was happening, but she seemed to be viewing it from afar. Her head throbbed and she felt alternately burning hot and chilled. She tried to fight her way out of the lieutenant’s grasp, but her muscles seemed to be made of water. Her limbs refused her comman
ds. It was almost as if she’d been drugged. Then the realization hit her. She had been!

  Earlier in the evening, Phaedra had come to the brides’ tent. At that point, Charlotte had decided against accompanying the two Gypsies to town and had told Phaedra just that. At first the woman had flared at her in anger, calling her an assortment of vile names. Then she’d left the tent and returned a few moments later with a bottle of wine—a “peace offering,” she’d called it. She had insisted that they have a glass together.

  Charlotte knew the strong, sweet taste of Gypsy wine. She had never tasted any that had such bitterness and bite as this one. It was after the second glass that she had once more agreed to this mad scheme. At that moment, it had seemed the most logical thing in the world to do.

  “Well, Solange? Where will it be?” Delacorte demanded. “Upstairs? Or…” Abruptly, he shoved chips, cards, and glasses from a table and lifted Charlotte—none too gently—onto the green baize cover.

  Solange glanced nervously about. She’d sent Farlow on an errand; he was nowhere to be seen. And all her customers seemed to be siding with Lieutenant Delacorte. There were many impatient customers in the crowd who had been waiting overlong for her girls to get to them. In another few moments she’d have a riot on her hands, and only heaven knew what they would do then to this poor girl.

  “Here, Lieutenant, take the key. My room is at the end of—”

  “I know!” Delacorte snapped.

  The next moment, Charlotte was being hauled up the stairs, accompanied by the whistles and lewd comments of the men in the barroom. She put up a valiant struggle, but it was no use. The lieutenant meant to have what he had paid for.

  “What do you mean, ‘Charlotte’s not here’?”

  Mateo stood outside the door to the brides’ tent, demanding information from Tamara. It was well past dark. Surely Charlotte hadn’t gone roaming in the woods alone at this hour. Something was very wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Mateo. I don’t know where she is. When I came back here from the queen’s tent, she was gone. There were two wineglasses on the table, but no other clues as to who was here with her or where they might have gone. It’s not like her to leave without telling me.”

  Mateo stared long and hard at the pretty, velvet-eyed woman and decided she was telling him the truth. But Tamara the fortune-teller knew many truths. She always seemed to know without being told what was going on. Something in the taut lines around her mouth told Mateo that she was aware of more than she was willing to say, and that she didn’t like what she knew.

  “Tamara, where is she?” he demanded.

  “It is not my place to say, Mateo. Speak to your mother.”

  Tamara’s reply sent a rush of anxiety through him. Had his mother finally sent Charlotte away to try and break the bond between them? He felt a deep rage filling his chest. Then, as he neared the queen’s tent, he noticed something that turned his rage to dread. Petronovich’s caravan was gone!

  He stormed into his mother’s tent and demanded, “Where is she?”

  “Were is who?”

  The old woman matched his fire with her own. Her eyes glittered with defiance. Mateo realized immediately that the information he sought would not be easily come by. Certainly loudly voiced demands would get him nowhere.

  “Tamara told me Charlotte is gone. She said you might know where she is.”

  “Yes, I might.”

  “Then, tell me!”

  “Some things are better left untold until after the fact, my son. It would do you no good to know where she is. She is out of your reach for the moment.”

  “She’s safe, then?”

  The old queen nodded.

  “She will return?”

  “If she chooses. I certainly did not drive her away, if that’s what you’re thinking, Mateo.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I should have known you wouldn’t do such a thing. But it isn’t like Charlotte to just disappear… to go off all alone.”

  “You needn’t worry. She isn’t alone.”

  A heavy silence hung in the tent for a few seconds. The dread that had gnawed at Mateo a short time earlier returned with far greater impact.

  “You didn’t let her go off with Petronovich?”

  “I told you, son. I had nothing to do with her leaving. As for who accompanied her, I had no say in that either. I haven’t spoken to Charlotte all day.”

  Mateo frowned. “But she told me she was coming to visit you. She had a basket of berries she’d picked.”

  “She meant to, but Phaedra intercepted her before she got here—just outside, in fact. The two of them talked for a long time.”

  “And you overheard their conversation?”

  “I had little choice in the matter.”

  “Then you know exactly what’s going on.”

  “I do. At first, I considered putting a stop to it. But after all, Charlotte Buckland is not one of us. I have no say in what she does. Perhaps Fate willed this. At any rate, it was not my place to interfere. You must not either, Mateo. It would only shame her and prove nothing.”

  “Shame her? Mother, what in God’s name are you talking about? What’s going on? I have to know!”

  Queen Zolande was silent for a moment, considering. She had heard Petronovich’s caravan leaving some time ago. Surely, by now, that which they had set out to accomplish was done. She could not see putting her son through further needless worry. Besides, he would learn the truth sooner or later, and perhaps it would not hurt so much coming from his mother.

  “Very well, Mateo. I will tell you. Charlotte Buckland has returned to Leavenworth. It seems she and Phaedra have certain plans for the evening. Phaedra explained to her one of our ancient traditions, and Charlotte expressed a desire to experience the Gypsy way of life. Tonight your Golden One has lain with a gajo in order to earn her own gold.”

  For several moments, silence reigned in the tent. When Mateo finally spoke, his voice was cold, hard, deadly. “How could you allow this?” He turned away from his mother, afraid of what else he might say if he stayed a minute longer.

  “Mateo, let her go!”

  The queen’s words followed him from the tent as he raced for his horse. He leaped into the saddle, dug in his heels, and headed at a gallop toward Leavenworth. His face was grim, his heart and soul torn with a black fury. Maybe he would be in time. If he wasn’t…

  “You need not be afraid of me.”

  The lieutenant had brought Charlotte to a lavishly appointed bedroom, where he’d tossed her unceremoniously into the middle of the large featherbed. He’d locked the door. Now he was taking his own good time—toying with her.

  He fixed himself a drink and offered her one. Charlotte declined. Sipping from his glass in a leisurely manner, he strode about the room, touching the dainty pieces of gilt furniture, stroking the purple satin bedspread, smiling at his reflection and Charlotte’s in the mirrors overhead. Suddenly he reached down and stripped the blouse from her shoulders, still staring at her reflection. His hand fondled her breasts casually. Charlotte went rigid.

  “Relax!” he ordered in a stern voice. “I told you, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m sure this isn’t your first time. That bastard in the fancy cart who brought you in would have charged far more for a virgin. So we won’t have that to worry about, will we?” He looked down, his cold gray eyes measuring Charlotte’s reaction, and added, “More’s the pity! Still, I can’t say I have the patience tonight that it takes to deal with a virgin.”

  Charlotte could see in the mirror that her cheeks were flaming scarlet. She had to escape. She glanced toward the window. Maybe she could get out that way.

  Lance Delacorte guessed her motives and gave a low, humorless chuckle. “You’re here to stay until I’ve had my fill. Doors locked, windows barred. Solange’s one great fear is of thieves stealing her precious things.” He leaned down close, pressing a hand on Charlotte’s skirt until it slipped between her l
egs. Then he whispered, “If you want to know the truth, I think she keeps some of her other valuables barred up as well. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that the woman wears a chastity belt to guard against thieves in that area, too.”

  He gave his hand a quick twist, then pinched her through the layers of fabric. Charlotte cried out as much from shock as pain.

  “Good!” He smiled down at her. “No chastity belt there!”

  He left her for a moment, going back to the portable bar on the bureau. Pouring a stiff whiskey, he tossed it down, then a second and a third. With his back still to her, he began undressing. He slippped off his shirt, displaying a lean back bulging with muscles. He tossed the shirt onto a chair near the door.

  Charlotte eyed him cautiously. The key was in the pocket of that shirt. If she were quick enough, she might be able to make a dash for key, door, and freedom. But there was no time to think about it. She must move like lightning.

  In one fluid motion, she was off the bed and at the chair, fumbling in the shirt pocket until her fingers closed on cool metal. She had the key in the lock and was turning it when powerful arms gripped her from behind. He threw her across the room to the bed with the bellow of an enraged bull. She lay there, panting, terrified. All was lost.

  His eyes blazed with rage as he shouted, “I was going to be nice to you. Yes! I fully intended to make this a pleasant experience for both of us. But no! You don’t want that. You want to make things difficult—unpleasant. Well, Gypsy woman, I can arrange that, too!”

  He fell on her then, tearing at her clothes while his mouth ravaged hers. She tried to scream, but he swallowed the sound. Meanwhile, his hands worked her flesh—kneading, gouging, bruising.

  Frantic to be away from him, she bit down on his lips. He howled in pain and rose from her, but only long enough to slap her hard across the mouth. The blow stunned her. She lay still for a time, her whole body aching and refusing to respond. Lance Delacorte took advantage of her immobility to strip away the rest of her clothing. When her head cleared, she was staring up at her own naked image. She screamed so loudly that the crystal droplets on the wall sconces tinkled together, threatening to break.