Claiming the Forbidden Bride (8 page)

Which was for the best, he told himself for the hundredth time. No matter the physical attraction he felt for Nadya Argentari, he could not act on it. He owed her more than that kind of disrespect.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to think of something else. Anything else.

He concentrated on the subtle sounds that had become part of the fabric of the time he'd spent here. The hiss and
crackle of the fires that were kept burning all night. The brush of wind through the leaves overhead. The distant movements of the penned horses.

Tonight the familiar night-time stillness seemed deeper somehow. As if every soul in the encampment were asleep except for him.

Then, flickering on the edges of his consciousness, like a melody once heard and never forgotten, came a sound he couldn't quite identify, yet knew he should. Breathing suspended, he listened for the noise he'd heard only seconds before.

It had been alien somehow. Out of place in the peacefulness of the sleeping camp.

When it drifted again through the stillness, he threw the covers off and bent to pull on the boots Nadya had so carefully polished this afternoon. As he hurried to the front of the caravan, the sound grew louder, whispering through the trees like the wind that presages a storm.

Even before he'd reached the caravan's entrance, he could see a faint glow among the trees. As he pushed aside the curtain, he smelled the burning pitch of the torches the men carried and heard the murmur of angry voices, which grew louder and louder as the mob poured through the forest toward the encampment.

His gaze flew to the caravan on the far side of the clearing. Illuminated by the campfires between, dark figures moved silently from tent to tent.

For an instant, he thought the invaders had breeched the camp's defences. Then he realized the Rom were preparing to defend themselves.

As Rhys descended the steps of the
vardo
, he became aware of the controlled chaos that surrounded him. Men pushed their wives and sleep-befuddled children toward the safety of the dark forest.

He ran toward the old woman's caravan, hoping its occupants were among the silent wraiths already disappearing into the trees. He hurried up its steps, pushing aside the concealing curtain without knocking.

Despite the lack of light, he could tell that the interior of this wagon followed the same basic design as the one he'd recuperated in. He rushed down the narrow central corridor toward the sleeping compartment in the rear, his heart dropping into his stomach when he found it still occupied. Nadya and her daughter were sleeping soundly despite what was happening outside.

‘Get up.'

‘What is it?' Like a soldier, Nadya had come awake instantly, every sense alert.

‘There's a mob coming through the woods.'

She slipped out of bed and then scooped up her daughter. She didn't protest when Rhys took the still-groggy child from her arms.

‘Get your shoes,' he ordered over his shoulder as he carried the little girl toward the entrance.

‘Oh, my God.' Nadya's soft exclamation told him she was close enough to see the torches, which were now much nearer the clearing than when he'd first seen them.

‘Who's out there?' Rhys dragged one of the blankets off the shelf beside the door and wrapped it around the child.

‘Someone missing a cow,' Nadya said bitterly. ‘Someone whose child's fallen ill. Or whose crops failed.'

As Rhys listened to the litany of things traditionally blamed on the Rom, he tried to decide if defending the wagon would be safer than taking the two of them into the forest. The sound of one of the light wheeled carts the band used for transport being overturned decided him.

As he carried Angel down the steps, Rhys realized that the Romany men were mounting a counterattack. Despite their efforts, one of the bender tents had been put to the torch. The speed with which the fire caught and the eerie glow it cast on the faces of the invaders created an additional sense of urgency.

‘Come on.' Rhys put his hand against Nadya's back, pushing her toward the trees.

‘That leads to the river.' Taking his hand, Nadya began to draw him in the opposite direction. The same one from which the mob had approached.

In order to do what she was suggesting, Rhys realized, they would have to skirt the clearing and then enter the woods on its far side. Given the ongoing pandemonium, that longer journey might ultimately be less hazardous than becoming trapped between the enemy and the river.

As he trailed Nadya, who kept to the shadows beneath the overarching beech trees, his eyes surveyed the madness around them. She and the little girl whose arms were wrapped tightly around his neck were his primary concerns, but seeing the destruction of the Rom encampment, he vowed that if he could find refuge for them, he would come back and join the fight.

They skirted another overturned cart, its load spilled out onto the close-packed earth. Ahead, a small group of the invaders had surrounded one of the men of the tribe.

Two were holding the Gypsy upright, his arms behind his back, while a third shouted questions at him. Those were periodically punctuated by the sound of the questioner's fists striking the helpless Rom.

Nadya stopped so suddenly Rhys ran into her. She turned, her eyes pleading with him to do something.

Rhys's background and training made it impossible to refuse. He shoved the little girl into her mother's arms and ran to where the one-sided attack was taking place.

As he passed the nearest of the campfires, he bent and unhooked the iron kettle that hung from its tripod. He swung his makeshift weapon at the unprotected head of the first Englishman he encountered, dropping him unceremoniously.

The rest turned, their eyes widening in shock at the interruption of their entertainment. One of them shouted, ‘Watch out, Oliver.'

Rhys swung the kettle again, this time at the nearer of the two holding the Rom. His intended target, warned of his intent, raised his arm to ward off the blow.

The metal pot resounded hollowly as it struck. Still hot from the fire, its heat rather than the force of the blow dispatched Rhys's second victim, who leaped away, cursing.

Rhys turned then to the man who'd been systematically pummelling the Gypsy. In the light of the burning tents, Rhys recognized the battered face as belonging to the Rom who'd talked to him the afternoon he'd carved the cat for Angel.

The recognition caused a split-second's hesitation in his forward progress, one the man beating the Rom used to his advantage. He charged, ham-sized fists lifted like a prize-fighter. Rhys managed to duck the first, but the second—a hard right aimed at his ribs—landed a glancing blow to his damaged shoulder instead.

The resulting agony robbed him not only of breath, but of the ability to think. He sank to his knees under its force.

Instinct alone made him struggle to his feet as the man came at him again. Bent over from the pain, Rhys still managed to drive his head into his attacker's solar plexus, forcing him backward and into the bottom of an overturned cart.

The man recovered more quickly than Rhys, launching himself once more into the fray. As Rhys staggered forward, he again ran into the man's punishing fists. The left struck his jaw, rocking his head back. The right, as if in payment for his previous momentary success, came up under his ribcage.

Deprived again of the ability to breathe, this time for a very different reason, all Rhys could do was cling to the man's thickset shoulders with both hands. From his limited experience with the kind of bare-knuckle brawler he now knew he faced, he understood that once he went down, the man's boots would replace his fists.

Rhys braced for the next blow, knowing that whatever happened, he had to hang onto consciousness so he could get Nadya and Angel away. Motivated by fear, not for his own life, but for theirs, Rhys gathered waning reserves.

He sagged against his opponent, feigning a greater weakness than he felt. At the same time he brought his knee up and, with every ounce of strength in his lower body, drove it into the vulnerable area between the man's thighs. His adversary crumbled, slipping from Rhys's grasp with a drawn-out scream.

Knowing that one posed no further threat, Rhys turned, looking for the rest of the men who'd surrounded the Gypsy. He realized with a jolt of terror that he and the bare-knuckled bruiser he'd fought, now writhing on the ground, were alone.

Everyone else, including Nadya and her daughter, had disappeared.

N
adya had watched Rhys fight with her heart in her throat. She now realized that with her request she'd put the ex-soldier into an impossible situation. It was unlikely that, recently recovered from a debilitating fever, he could hold his own against such a physically imposing opponent.

When he fell to his knees, head hanging in exhaustion, she'd set Angel down on the ground, quickly making the sign for ‘stay.' Then she'd begun to search frantically among Andrash's scattered belongings for a weapon—any weapon—to use against Rhys's foe.

Before she could discover one, she'd watched unbelievingly as Rhys seemed to explode upward, driving the bull-necked man into the blacksmith's overturned cart. At that point, she had taken her eyes off the fight to check on her daughter, only to find Angel was no longer where she'd put her.

Nadya turned in a tight circle, desperately searching for a glimpse of her child. First in her immediate vicinity. And then among the shadowed figures rushing through the smoke-filled clearing.

The encampment was like a scene from a nightmare. And no matter how hard she strained to see through the haze, she could find no trace of her daughter.

She glanced back at Rhys, who was braced for his opponent's next assault. Without a weapon, she could be of little help.

Besides, her greater responsibility was to her daughter. She had to find Angel and get her away from the dangers around them. Dangers that increased by the second.

The two places the child might consider to be safe havens were Nadya's caravan and that of her grandmother. The little girl had spent time in both and each was associated in her mind with people who loved her.

Her own
vardo
was closer now than Magda's. With that alone as the deciding factor, Nadya began to run toward it.

Panicked at the thought of her daughter's danger, she never considered her own. When they'd set out, she had instinctively led Rhys through the shadows cast by the trees. Now she flew through the centre of the camp, skirting the knots of men engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

When she reached her wagon, she gathered the skirt of her nightgown in one hand to scramble up its steps. There were half a dozen places inside that might offer concealment. Since Angel was unable to hear or respond to her voice, Nadya would have to search them all. And without light, she decided, which might bring unwanted attention.

Frantically she ran her hands along shelves, into cupboards and under the narrow beds. As she searched, the cacophony of sounds from outside seemed to grow in volume and hysteria.

It was somehow more frightening not to be able to see the darting figures, but only to hear the hate-filled shouts and
the occasional scream. And even more terrifying to think Angel might be somewhere in the midst of that insanity.

Satisfied at last that her
vardo
was empty, Nadya descended its high steps, only to realize that someone was running toward the caravan. She had a fraction of a second to decide whether to try to hide or to fight her way past the approaching man.

‘Drabarni?'

Nicolaus, she realized in relief. ‘Have you seen Angel?'

‘No,
drabarni
. Have they taken her?'

The concern in his voice was almost her undoing. Up until now Nadya hadn't even thought of that possibility.

Now she knew she must. An English child in the middle of a Romany camp might well be considered someone in need of rescue. Someone to be taken back to ‘civilization.' Someone who would eventually, perhaps, be returned to that awful existence from which Nadya had wrenched her away.

‘I don't know. Please help me find her, Nicolaus. Will you go into the forest and see if she's there?'

‘Of course,
drabarni
. What will you do?'

‘Make sure she didn't go to Magda's caravan. If you see her—' She hesitated, unsure what to tell him. ‘If you see her, take her with you. Keep her safe, Nicolaus.'

Nadya was off before he had a chance to reply. She headed back in the direction from which she'd come, again cutting straight across the disordered compound.

A dozen of the tents had been set afire. Here and there were upended carts, some of those ablaze as well. A few fights still raged, but it quickly became apparent that more and more of the Rom had slipped away, recognizing that they couldn't defend the camp against the larger force.

Theirs was a strategy perfected through the centuries. They would melt into the forest, carrying their most
valuable possessions, mostly gold and gems, which were always kept hidden where they could be snatched up with a few seconds' warning.

The rest—the pots and pans, clothing and bedding, even the implements of their trades—could all be replaced. Their lives could not.

Their lives.

Someone in the
kumpania
would surely have scooped up a wandering child and carried her with them, Nadya told herself. If Angel wasn't in Magda's caravan, then she'd been taken to the woods. The Rom, any one of them, would keep her safe.

Please, dear God, let her be safe.

By some miracle she managed to reach the other side of the clearing without incident. Her grandmother's
vardo
, too heavy for the marauders to tip over, appeared unmolested.

She hurried up its steps, flinging aside the curtain at the top. The fires outside were bright enough to illuminate the front. After a cursory search of that, Nadya ran toward the sleeping partition at the rear. Angel sat upright in the middle of the bed they'd shared since Rhys had regained consciousness. Her rag doll and the cat Rhys had carved for her—forgotten in the initial terror—were clasped to her chest.

In the dimness, the child's eyes were wide and dark with fear. As Nadya bent toward her, the little girl's trembling thumb made a familiar stroke down her cheek—the sign Nadya used for reassurance. Quickly echoing that gesture, Nadya picked up her daughter, hugging her close.

Tears of joy sprang to her eyes at the feel of the small solid body against hers, but despite the overwhelming flood of relief she felt, there was no time for emotion. They were back where they'd started, and the journey they must undertake to safety seemed even more fraught with peril than before.

Nadya wrapped her own shawl around the child, who shook with cold or fear, and carried her toward the front of the wagon. Shifting Angel into a more upright position, she managed to negotiate the steps. Once on the ground, she took a moment to assess the situation.

The myriad fires had made the clearing as bright as day. Only a few of the Rom still resisted, a rear-guard action intended to give the women and children as much time as possible to get away. As she hesitated, her eyes searching for the best path into the forest, one of the remaining men called to her.

‘You found the girl,
drabarni
?'

Panuel.
She nodded to him, her arms automatically tightening around her daughter. ‘I have her. She's safe.'

‘I'll tell the others. Nicolaus told us to look for her.' He glanced over his shoulder at the smoke-shrouded centre of what had been their encampment before he turned back to her, his eyes troubled. ‘You should go now,
drabarni
. There are too few of us left to hold them off for long.'

Nodding her thanks, Nadya turned to run in the direction she'd decided was her best chance of escape. Before she had taken more than a dozen steps, a dark shape loomed out of the smoke in front of her.

‘Here she is! I found her!' the man shouted.

Nadya sidestepped as he lunged at her, evading his hand. He came at her again, eyes shining in the light reflected from the torches that were approaching in response to his call.

This time the man's fingers closed over her shoulder, locking on it painfully. Knowing she would soon be outnumbered, Nadya reacted with desperation.

She turned her head and sank her teeth into the fingers that held her, biting down to the bone. The man released her with a strangled cry, shaking his hand as he danced away.

As soon as his grip had relaxed, Nadya jerked free. She sprinted toward the woods, uncaring, now that she had Angel, about anything other than losing her pursuers in the welcoming darkness of the forest.

 

Despite telling himself over and over that Nadya had taken her daughter and fled into the nearby woods, Rhys knew something was wrong. She had asked him to intervene on the Rom's behalf. Would she have deserted him in the middle of that intervention?

A few of the English were still applying their torches to anything that hadn't yet been burned. The Rom, who had fought so valiantly at the beginning of the attack, seemed to have disappeared.

A strategic retreat, based on the disparity in numbers? Or cowardice on a scale he hadn't seen in all his years of combat?

Whatever the case, Rhys knew his efforts alone couldn't turn the tide of this battle. And if Nadya and her daughter were safe…

If.

Maybe she'd gone to check on her grandmother. Or maybe she had remembered something of value she'd left in her own caravan.

After an unconscious assessment of which would be more likely for Nadya to do, he found himself running toward the wagon where Angel had taken the wooden cat that afternoon. As he ran, he realized that despite the fight, his body was still able to function with relative effectiveness.

The effects of the fever seemed to have passed. As long as he didn't receive another blow to his damaged shoulder—

A cart was overturned almost in front of him. It hit the ground with a clatter of pots and pans, the force of its fall causing the shroud of smoke that choked the camp to waft
aside momentarily. In that brief window of visibility, Rhys saw the old woman's
vardo
.

That it was still standing elated him after the destruction around him. That emotion that was quickly replaced by another.

One of the attackers, easily identifiable as English by his clothing, stood near the bottom of its steps. He pointed toward the edge of the clearing, shouting something unintelligible.

Rhys's gaze automatically tracked in the direction of the Englishman's outstretched arm. A woman ran toward the woods. A woman who carried what appeared to be a child wrapped in a shawl. A woman in a long, white gown.

Rhys's heart had begun to pound before the smoke once more obscured the scene. He broke through it, running as if his life depended on it.

Because he had seen what the woman could not.

Under the direction of the man at Magda's caravan, two others rushed toward her, approaching at an angle. Their paths would intersect before she could reach the safety of the trees.

It wasn't Nadya. She'd had more than enough time to reach the woods since she'd disappeared. She wouldn't still be in camp.

Even as his brain supplied those assurances, Rhys ran. His breath sawed in and out of lungs that burned with exertion. The ache in his shoulder, which seconds before had seemed a mere inconvenience, was once more nearly paralyzing in its intensity.

At last he broke through the pall of smoke that hovered over the encampment. The woman he followed had reached the shadows under the trees. And the men he'd seen before—

As he watched, one of them reached out to catch her arm
and drag her away from the relative safety of the woods. She fought back, striking at her attacker with her free hand.

As she struggled, the shawl fell away from the head of the child she carried. Firelight danced over long, fair hair, leaving no doubt in Rhys's mind about her identity.

Calling on reserves he couldn't believe he possessed, he increased his speed. The heavyset man who'd been shouting directions to the others was almost to them as well.

Operating under the military principle that one should take out the leader first, Rhys threw himself at the person he perceived to be in charge. The shouting man went down, the air forced out of his lungs in a great whoosh as Rhys landed on top of him.

Knowing that Englishman would be out of action for at least a couple of minutes, Rhys clambered up and headed for the one still struggling to control Nadya. The invader's eyes widened as he realized he was about to come under attack. That realization didn't happen in time to allow him to evade the blow Rhys aimed at his chin.

He went down as if poleaxed. Without breaking stride, Rhys gripped Nadya's elbow, pulling her with him into the shelter of the beeches. After progressing only a few feet, he recognized that, burdened as she was, they would never be able to outrun their pursuers.

‘Give her to me.' Breathless and exhausted, he could barely get the words out.

‘I can carry her,' Nadya protested.

‘Not fast enough to keep her safe.'

She hesitated only a heartbeat before she handed the little girl to him.

‘Now run,' he ordered. ‘I'll be right behind you.'

Her eyes expressed doubt, but despite it, she nodded.

She knew these environs far better than he did. And
hopefully better than the invaders as well. That might be the sole advantage they had.

As Rhys wrapped his good arm around Angel and prepared to follow the blur of white that was Nadya's gown, he could only pray it would be enough.

 

Nadya leaned against the trunk of one of the trees and listened. The only sound was their laboured breathing.

Somehow they had managed to elude the men who'd pursued them. Through luck or justice or divine intervention, nothing else was moving in the darkness at the heart of the forest.

As she waited, straining to hear footfalls among the fallen leaves, her pulse began to slow, the terror that had fuelled her run draining from her body. She turned, looking at the man who had, as he'd promised, carried her daughter to safety.

His profile was limned by the distant light of the fires they'd left behind. Still intent on the possibility of pursuit, Rhys seemed unaware of her scrutiny.