A Much Compromised Lady (6 page)

Even the cards.

Too often they disappointed. In fact, all her
life had seemed to be heartache after trouble. But it would not be
like that forever. No. This year everything was changing. This year
the wheel turned, and their lives would change. For the better—or
for the worse.

She wanted that change, for the hope it
brought that she might at last be able to have a real home. A
cottage in a village was all she had ever wanted. A place to live,
where she was known and where she knew others. Christo wanted far
more, but a house would be enough for her. A respectable house in a
respectable village. And she wished for it with such a yearning
that at times she feared it would never happen.

And at those times her mother insisted on
pulling out the cards, telling Glynis, “The card will show where
trouble lays. When you know the path, it is easier to walk with
courage.”

I know where trouble lays
, Glynis
thought, her mouth pulling down with annoyance. But she did not
mention again the
gaujo
she had met.

It had been nearly a fortnight since her
encounter with that
gaujo
and Francis Dawes. She had told
Christopher and her mother only a sketch of what had happened: her
attempt to steal the box, how she had hidden in the Earl of St.
Albans’s room, and how she had given up her clothes in order to
slip away. Christo’s expression had darkened at that, and Glynis
had thought it would be a very good thing if he and that earl never
chanced to meet.

Her mother had also frowned at the story, her
sightless eyes clouded. Her mother still seemed a young woman, a
little thickened by age, but still strong. Still vibrant. However,
that day her face turned as gray as the streak that ran through the
inky blackness of her hair. For a moment, Glynis could only see the
lines worn on her mother’s narrow face.
Ah, she warned us not to
act just yet, and it did not go well.

But her mother had only shaken her head, as
if accepting an inevitable truth. Turning away, she had ordered her
faithful Bado to pack the camp.

Having her mother say nothing—not even a
rebuke for ignoring the council she had given her children—was far
worse than any lecture. Glynis still cringed inwardly as she
thought of the disappointment on her mother’s face. She was such a
bad daughter. But then she was bad at most things, except for her
light fingers and her dancing.

Those talents seemed so little in this
world.

Since then, they had traveled a good
distance, stopping tonight outside the village of Epping. It was
closer to London than Glynis recalled ever going before, and she
knew that her mother—and Christo—were thinking of the great house
in London. Lord Nevin’s House, where Francis Dawes now lived.

However, it was not the proximity to him that
had had Glynis fussing with the campfire that night, making it and
then remaking it three times before she had lit it. And it was not
the warming, longer days, with a hint of summer in the night breeze
that left her restless. It was the thought that her
gaujo
lord might be near.

Shifting uncomfortably now, Glynis glanced
around the small glade where they had stopped. Anything so she did
not have to look at the cards being laid down. She did not want to
see what they might say. They might tell her too much truth.

Bado and Christopher had pitched the tents in
the clearing of a stand of maples, and the trees were newly leafed
in fresh green. Their pony—Kralisi—cropped grass nearby, her front
legs hobbled, but ‘Lisi never wandered far.

The two men had gone to a horse fair, and now
Glynis wished she had gone with them. Only she might have been
tempted into breaking her vow on how she must now use her skills to
restore what they had lost. She might, instead of thinking of the
future, have thought of the present and the small fare in the pot
tonight and liberated a few coins from some fat farmer’s
pockets.

Ah, well, soon Christo would be back with
broken and ill-used horses that could be fattened on summer grass
and retrained, and sold for a good profit. Bado knew how to whiten
a horse’s teeth and file them so ten years looked like five. And
Christo could teach a horse clever tricks that impressed a
gaujo
into paying more.

She wished she had such abilities, and not
the curse of light fingers and a silent step. But her gift had
sometimes been all that had kept them fed. She prayed now her gift
might be what could change the course of their lives.

With a quiet sigh, she glanced up to the sky,
just turning purple at the top with the gathering night.
Someday
, she vowed to the first star she glimpsed.
Someday I shall have a cottage with a cow and a garden, and I
shall never have to steal again. And I shall belong someplace. And
Christo will—

“You don’t listen,
Chei
!”

Glynis straightened with a twinge of guilt.
Her mother only used the Romany for daughter when she was
irritated.

Running her touch over the ace of spades with
a still elegant hand, her mother said, “Preparation is needed.
There is power to overcome obstacles, but only if you do not give
into bitterness. There is more at stake here than the
material.”

Wrinkling her nose, Glynis dutifully stared
at the cards. It was like this always. With the cards, her mother
saw things. She only saw cards. And only heard cryptic advice. Why
could the cards simply say, “
Do this!
” or “
Do not do
that!
”

Her mother turned over the next card, laid it
down and read it with her touch.

“The king of spades,” she said, her voice
still clear and as strong as a young woman’s, but her tone hushed.
“The highest card, and yet this one can bring failure as well as
success. He is the ‘law,’ and yet his life is one of uncertainty in
dealings with others. He is betrayed. The choice is his to touch
the world for good, or to sink to evil. Be cautious with this one.
For as he has been harmed, so will he give back to others—he will
betray you.”

Chewing on her lower lip, Glynis stared at
the card. Who did the card stand for? For Francis Dawes? For that
earl? For someone yet to come into her life? Someone in London?

Looking up, she stared into her mother’s
sightless gaze. “Who is he?”

Her
dej
began to gather the cards, and
gave a small shrug. Her black shawl slid off the black of her
dress. For as long as Glynis had memories, her mother had worn
black. Even though she was young enough to have married again, she
wore black for the dead husband she loved still.

“You will know,” she told Glynis. “God gives
you knowledge when you need it. Have patience for now.”

With a frustrated growl, Glynis threw up her
hands. “Patience. Why ever did you tell anything to Christo and I
if we are only to sit on our hands and wait?”

“It was time to tell you.”

“But not time to act! It never seems to be
time to act.”

Slowly, Glynis’s mother climbed to her feet.
Glynis rose as well, and reached out to help her mother.

Swatting away Glynis’s help, her mother
straightened. “The time will come, as the time came at last to tell
you of your heritage. Bah! Christo at least listens. You! You are
too like your father. You do not see that you cannot walk straight
when the road is bent. And this road is very bent. Very bent.
Beware the lesson your father had to learn.”

Glynis swallowed the dryness in her mouth.
She dropped her stare to the ground. Her father had paid for not
listening to cautions with his life.

She looked up to see her mother’s dark form
disappear into the nearest tent, the white canvas flap closing
behind her.

Scuffing a stone with her boot, Glynis turned
away from the tent and the firelight. She had not meant to be so
disrespectful. But, oh, she did want to hurry this. She did not
trust this waiting. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to know
her place in this world. She wanted a home for her mother, and for
Christo to be what he always should have been.

Perhaps she simply wanted too much.

Rubbing her arms against the cooling evening,
Glynis walked to where ‘Lisi grazed. She leaned her arm over the
sturdy pony’s back, not caring if white and black hairs and horse
smells attached themselves to her dark blue dress. ‘Lisi’s warmth
soaked into her, a comforting presence.

She had wished patience for Christo, but she
ought to have included herself in that, too, it seemed. It had been
as much her plan as his to give into the temptation to do more than
wait and follow Lord Nevin’s coach. And that had led them only to
more disappointment for they had gotten nothing from that
gaujo
. Ah, she should be used to that by now.

The steady sound of ‘Lisi’s grazing began to
ease her unhappiness, but still that need to do something mixed
uncomfortably with the dread that things really would not work out
as she wanted. Ah, but she did not want to spend another winter in
tents and on muddy roads. Her mother never complained, but Glynis
hated it most when the icy weather came and her mother moved stiff
and slow, like an old woman.

‘Lisi shifted, moving to a new patch of
grass. Glynis followed the pony, brushing shedding hair from the
pony’s back, scratching at the top of ‘Lisi’s shoulders.

“Ah, ‘Lisi. Too bad I am not like you, and
happy to be anywhere that thick grass grows.”

‘Lisi lifted her head and nodded, as if
agreeing, but Glynis knew the pony was only enjoying the attention.
She smiled. And the back of her neck began to tingle.

A branch snapped under a horse’s step.
Straightening, Glynis turned and started towards the sound, eager
to see the horses Bado and Christo had bought. But it was a giant
of a black horse that stepped from the shadows of the sheltering
maples.

At the sight of the rider on his back Glynis
froze.

Him!
That
gaujo
!

For a moment, half-hidden by the shadowing
trees, with his dark mount and his wicked beauty, he looked more
like some lord of the fey folks rather than a mortal lord. His
mount pawed the ground, restless, but he sat easily in the saddle.
Everything came too easy to this one, Glynis thought, frowning at
him.

His horse stepped forward and the last rays
of daylight glinted in his hair. The breeze ruffled those deep
bronze locks, disordering the curls into softness. His dark blue
coat opened over a rich, gold brocade waistcoat, and the nipped
waist made his shoulders look broader than she remembered. Only she
knew it was not padding that filled out his coat. She had seen the
sleek muscles under his white shirt when she had stripped him.

The memory warmed her face, and she scowled
at him. She would do best to remember that Lucifer, too, had the
beauty of dawn in his face. And this devil was a
gaujo
. A
Romany never came to any good at their hands.

Folding her arms, she deepened her scowl,
hoping that would hide how her pulse quickened, and how sensations
tingled upon her skin, and perhaps it would make him decide to turn
and ride away again. If she had any sense, she would turn and run
herself. But running had not gotten her very far from him—not if he
had tracked her here. And she had as much pride as he. So she
braced her feet wider and narrowed her eyes.

This time, he was in her world. This time, he
would be the one alone against her and her kind.

With a faint smile twisting his mouth, he
swung off his black horse and left it standing, his reins dangling.
She wished the animal would run off, but he had bewitched it as
well, so that it stood patient and waiting, its black ears
flickering towards its master.

Tucking a package wrapped in brown paper
under his arm, the
gaujo
lord came towards her, lazy grace
in every movement. As he neared, she saw the corner of his wide,
sensual mouth lift a touch more, but wary caution lay in his green
eyes.

Yes, you had better take care, my gaujo. I
have more than one trick to play.

He stopped close enough to her that she could
see the trace of golden beard on his cheek. She also saw the faint,
red line of a branch’s slash across his left temple. Her fingers
twitched to reach out to him, but she closed a fist on the impulse.
It was no concern of hers if he had so much conceit that he stayed
mounted rather than walk on the ground like a Gypsy peasant when
the branches thickened.

Oh, but why did she even notice such
things?

He made her a bow as if she was a lady and
they stood in the tame park of a great house, and held out the
package to her. “I believe these are yours.”

She glanced at the package, and back to him.
“You have nothing I want. Go home,
gaujo
. Before someone
takes your pretty horse, or takes a dislike to your pretty
face.”

His smile widened to something warm and
dangerously charming, and the green of his eyes deepened as wicked
humor sparked there. She stiffened against that fascination he wove
with so little effort.

“Pretty? You do say the most extraordinary
things. I cannot recall anyone ever calling me pretty. Devilish,
certainly. Remarkably good-looking has been mentioned by a few.
Handsome is not often noted, but then handsome is as handsome does,
and I so rarely do anything that is handsome by anyone.”

His Gypsy stood there, glaring at him as if
she wished she still had her hand wrapped around his pistol. And
his fatigue, the disgust of the dust on his person, and displeasure
with her for being so difficult to find—he had now lost his
favorite hat to a low slung branch for her—vanished. He found a
rare delight in how she always surprised him. And in how she took
his breath.

The setting sun cast golden light onto her
skin, warming it as had the firelight the last time he had seen
her. She wore a blue dress, high-waisted, but cut low and with a
brightly patterned scarf tucked around her neck. He would have
preferred to see her in less, but the dress nicely outlined the
swell of her breasts and fell softly over the sweet curve of her
hip.