For the Love of a Gypsy (4 page)

Chapter 5

Martine paced in her caravan, gripping her quaking stomach as she walked. They had left and found a new safe haven for the clan, one deeper in the wood with a river bending around the wagons like a protective perimeter. Each person had gathered their belongings, secured them in the wide berth of their wagons. Young boys had hitched horses to each wagon, shouting to each other, the excitement of a new journey evident in their young voices. And away they went. Now three days later, they had settled and were back to a normal routine.

“Lass,” her grandmother interrupted, “Rafe has need of you.”

Martine nodded, a lump forming in her throat as she tried to swallow. One by one, the explanations as to why the lord had recognized her vanished from her mind. How could she defend herself when she was truly in the wrong?

“You best see to him.”

Anya placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Martine patted her hand; the papery smooth surface belied the many years her
púridaia
had toiled. How hard she had worked to support the tribe. They’d all labored endlessly securing enough money, food, and clothing, despite the harsh times that brought the clan sickness, turbulent weather, and battles for their right to exist.

Her grandmother lost her husband in such a way. Fighting for freedom in England had left the clan with a pitiful mix of old men, women, and children. Her grandfather suffered from the shame and never recovered from his injuries. Anya mourned him constantly, Martine knew. Every so often she’d catch such a sad and lonely cast to Anya’s gaze. Her grandmother hid it well, but the telltale signs of fresh tears often glimmered in her wise eyes before she masked them.

Now to see her brother.

Martine remembered when he helped lay their grandfather and parents to rest. Such discipline he used to disguise his sorrow. Martine recalled the proud line of his shoulder as he hoisted the coffin to rest upon it and looked forward. He marched as the other men, all many decades older than him, grim and manly despite being just fifteen years old.

That day he entered into the leadership of the tribe. No one disputed his readiness or qualifications. Rafe was a Petrulengo and that proved enough to earn the trust of the elders. Regardless, the tradition of selecting a ruler dictated her brother take the helm no matter his age.

A frown tugged at her mouth. Thinking back, she realized that was when she lost her brother and gained a leader. No more had they fished along a creek, rode recklessly across an open field, her sitting in front of him for safety. No, Rafe held too much responsibility to be gallivanting about with his eight-year-old sister.

Rafe had always accepted her. Held her dear and protected her against the other children who were slow to welcome her presence. ‘Twas the Gypsy way—
Gajos
weren’t accepted, weren’t allowed to be part of the clan. Yet here she was, the
Kapo’s siskkaar
. And eventually, the clan came around and thought of her as one of their own, especially when she died her hair and followed their customs.

She removed her grandmother’s hand from her shoulder and left the wagon. Rafe was in the center of the encampment training a Vanner. The horse was a gorgeous mix of white and black with a long mane and shaggy hair around its massive hooves. Wind bucked up the dirt, swirling into a little storm in the middle. On the other side of the whorl of dust, her brother stood. He watched her and the horse with those unreadable dark eyes of his. Pricks of uncertainty raced up her spine as she strode toward him. She grasped her hair as it whipped about her face and twisted it into a knot. He still watched her, ignoring the wind, dirt, and his own hair blowing about.

He beckoned a young boy to take the horse to graze. She watched longingly as the horse trotted alongside the boy and away from her brother.

“We’ve a lot to discuss,
Siskkaar
.” He turned and walked toward his caravan. There he lived alone, no wife or children, simply satisfied with leading the clan, yet not providing an heir if he should fall into the trap of ill fate. ‘Twas a problem which the clan elders tended to remind him about.

She glanced at the straight line of his back, clothed in a full white shirt. It flapped in the wind like a sail broken loose of its moorings. His strides outpaced hers with his long legs eating up more ground with each step. To keep up, Martine trotted a little, though she loathed appearing too eager.

As they approached his home, men exited and watched as they entered. The elders nodded solemnly at her, their wrinkled faces hiding any indication of what her fate may be. New dread rose at the back of her throat, almost gagging her with fear.

Martine gripped the fabric of her skirt in an attempt to steady her nerves. She tripped on a stone but quickly righted herself before her brother had the opportunity to spy the clumsy action.

“I have spoken with Magor’s father,” he explained as she sat across from him. “The wedding contract has been agreed and you will hold an exalted position in Magor’s clan.” He looked pointedly at her. “Until you are wed, you will need to watch all of your actions and the actions of those around you.”

She nearly rolled her eyes but stifled the action. “Aye.” Her heart raced as she thought of her impending marriage. How was she to manage without her grandmother? She’d never train dogs again or teach the children to read.

Her brother continued to discuss what the clans had agreed upon in order for her to wed Magor, but she barely heard him.

Life would change with or without her permission.

“
Kapo
,” a voice called. “We’ve found a man!”

“Pash,” a pleasant voice said. “You’ll tear your bandages.”

Declan tried to pull out of the tepid cocoon in which his mind and body rested. Pain free, as if he floated on a mattress softer than clouds in the sky. The voice continued to speak and try as he might, he couldn’t force his eyes open.

A hand gently patted his shoulder that he could discern. Then blackness filled him again as he lost his clutch on the easy rhythm of the voice. Humming lulled him back to sleep, a welcome respite regardless of his wish to wake and see who sang to him.

Martine peeked into the wagon in which her grandmother nursed the Irishman. Curiosity drove her, yet her heart held a stake in his safety. How she wanted to replace the gentle woman who now fed him medicinal draughts and slathered ointments on his battered body.

She tipped her head and regarded him as she leaned further into the caravan. If Rafe were here and saw her with her head in the door and her feet sticking out, he’d be furious. She grinned, then steadied herself when she nearly toppled.

Anya moved the sheet further and tsked. Thankfully, the wounds were starting to heal. At first she was shocked at the cuts and bruises over his torso. Some so deep, Anya stitched them with her apt hand. The injury that concerned her the most was the deep gash on his forehead. Stitches jagged across the dark purple bruise and it had swelled horribly.

Once her grandmother’s back was turned, Martine snuck into the caravan and sat beside the narrow bed housing Lord Forrester. Awareness of their differences didn’t stop her from admiring him. His chest and shoulders bulged with muscles and surpassed the width of the bed. If she touched him, would he be hard? Would he wake? She shook her head to dispel the ridiculous idea. She was a maiden, one who was betrothed.

Still, she thought as she tipped her head to the side. Just a sheet clad him from the waist on down, but it still lent to the firm shape and length of his legs. His feet peeked out and hung over the end of the cot. Tall and strong, the man seemed to draw her with curiosity and, aye, brazen admiration.

“Pash, lass, ye nearly scared me to death,” her grandmother said.

Heat rushed over her face as she hastily stood, nearly knocking over the chair. “I wanted to see how he was faring.”

Anya chuckled. That wicked all-knowing rumble that amused and annoyed Martine all at once.

“Aye, lass. What do you think happened to him?”

She tapped her lips with her finger and searched the sleeping man’s face. He looked less threatening, she thought, less demanding and arrogant. The sharp edge of his jaw still held, but around his eyes, he looked peaceful. Something her mind told her he didn’t experience often.

“He’s running from something, someone.” She touched his warm hand. His fingers curled around hers as if it were the most natural thing in world. Her hand tingled as his heat seeped into her. Glancing at Anya, she reluctantly pulled away. “The cuts look clean, almost as if he were cut by glass.”

Her grandmother stood beside her, a rag in one hand and a bottle of ointment in the other. “Aye,” she said with an approving nod. Anya patted her arm. “This man has a place in yer life.”

She scoffed, looking away. “Aye, he does. He’s sleeping in my caravan.” She couldn’t allow her grandmother to sense her attraction to Lord Forrester. She must keep her thoughts pure and for her betrothed. Lord Forrester wasn’t Rom. He was forbidden and must remain forbidden so she did not shame the clan.

A raspy chuckle shook her grandmother’s shoulders. “Ye know what I speak of, my dear.” She then wagged her finger in Martine’s face. “Don’t push him away, no matter what Rafe says.”

Now confused, Martine kept her gaze on the lord and tried to find the meaning in Anya’s words. “Don’t you understand? I must do as my brother says.”

Anya waved her hand. “No matter, girl. Go see to the children. You know how yer brother likes them to learn their lessons. And make sure to use the dye for yer tresses. The color is fading a bit.”

She touched her hair and nodded, torn between watching over the injured man and seeing to the minds of the clan’s children. Duty won out, of course, and she left her caravan for the open area of the encampment, far away from the handsome Irishman.

Children raced through the center, playing some game or another. Several little girls circled around a basket of discarded cloth, dolls in their hands as they wrapped them in makeshift clothing. The sun gleamed down on their little heads, shining against their dark Gypsy hair.

She remembered when she was just their age and how she played alone until Maria tucked her under her wing and they’d been thick as thieves ever since.

The young girls noticed her and jumped up to greet her. They hugged her, their tiny faces brushed against her skirt, and she could smell the freshness of their recently bathed bodies. She ruffled their hair and bade them to follow her to the teaching wagon.

They called to their brothers and soon a pack of children crowded the small space. She sat amid them, her legs tucked beneath her as she wrote letters on a slate and had the children repeat the steps.

She tried to concentrate, yet her mind stubbornly returned to Lord Forrester sleeping in her wagon. The image of him clad in a sheet and little else taunted her in a way that perplexed her with curiosity and shame, but och, the way his tan skin pulled over his muscular chest had her blushing at the mere thought. And the way his muscles bunched and strained, then flexed and bulged—‘twas outrageous. She didn’t mind bunking with Anya, but the intimacy of him sleeping in her bed felt unseemly, forbidden and exciting all at once. Shouldn’t the only man to share her home be the man she married?

Marriage. Och, she shivered as a chill raced up her spine.

The word should chime with happiness for her. Instead, she recalled the image of Magor’s tall form and stern features. They’d never spoken a word to each other. Her brother negotiated the marriage and somehow Martine felt insulted.

Ridiculous, she thought with a firm shake of her head. ’Twas the custom of the clan and she must support her
Kapo
. He was her leader and the clan would certainly frown if she spoke her mind. Hadn’t her awareness of the Irishman caused enough trouble? She’d heard the whispers by the others and their snide remarks about the
Gajo
in their midst. A non-gypsy being nursed in the encampment violated everything the Gypsies held dear and, as for safety, how could they be sure a brigade wouldn’t ride in tomorrow seeking the lord?

“Martine, can we go now?” a small voice interrupted her musings and concerns.

She turned to Lucinda. “Aye,” she said. “You may all go for the day.”

The children bustled out of the wagon with energy she admired. They were so wholesome and without guile.

She bit her lip and hesitated before leaving the protection the caravan provided. Should she venture toward the cooking circle? Not to cook, of course, but Maria was there and it felt like ages since they had a good talk over tea.

Martine stood in the doorway for a few more minutes before she descended the thin wooden steps. As if they had a mind of their own, her feet headed toward her caravan and the bedside of Lord Forrester.

Her home was quiet, her grandmother perhaps mixing her herbs in her own wagon for ointments and salves. The lord lay still on the bed, the covers strew about his body, hugging each oak of a leg like a second skin. She felt a heated blush as her gaze slid along his strong form, embarrassed at her own boldness but not able to help herself.

As she watched him, there was a type of energy tingling along her skin, rushing through her blood as she took in the planes of his face—strong and bold. She was enthralled with the tiny cleft in his chin and she wanted to touch it, if only for a second. His broad mouth tightened as if he were in pain, then relaxed so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. If only she could reach out and soothe his brow without waking him. Martine shook her head. She mustn’t think of him. Soon he’d be gone and she’d be on her way to her wedding. All of her wondering about the Irishman would be a memory.

The faint scent of lavender teased his senses. Declan opened his eyes a crack and was rewarded with the vision. The Gypsy stood staring at him with rapt interest. He held back a chuckle at the blatant interest he didn’t know a maiden could possess. He kept his gaze hooded. Watching her soothed him, almost helped him forget the injuries troubling his body. Whatever medicine the Gypsy had given him must be wearing off. He felt each cut and bruise and what he thought were stitches as they throbbed. The pounding of a megrim at the base of his neck alerted him that he was unwell, and he didn’t have the benefit of Ettenborough’s brew. God, Ettenborough must have laid Abigail to rest by now. How he loathed not being with her until the end. His dear friend and wife had died at the hand of a coward and there was naught he could do until he was healed.