Gypsy Moon (19 page)

Annabelle watched him from the front window. She hated treating him so badly, but maybe he would learn his lesson once and for all. She’d put up with four years of him always having his way—always refusing to answer her questions—always taking, never giving. She loved him, but love had to go two ways, if it was going to work. She had a feeling this was her last chance—and she meant to make good on it!

She had Colonel Custer’s promise that he would do something about the Gypsies, and she certainly had her husband’s attention now that she’d spent three days primping for and flirting with Lance’s commanding officer. She’d never seen a man so jealous. Now maybe he was beginning to understand what he’d put her through all these years.

Annabelle Delacorte let the lace curtain drop from her fingers when Lance disappeared into the stable. She sighed wearily and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She only hoped all this pain was worth the effort.

George Custer strode about his living room, trying to get his thoughts in order. Everything had to work today with split-second precision, or it would fail and he’d have a riot on his hands.

He stopped by the piano and caressed the gilt frame containing his wife’s picture. He wished Libbie were here today. But in another way, he was glad she wasn’t. He missed her terribly, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her safety when all hell broke loose after the performance. He didn’t mean for anyone to be harmed. He only wanted to throw a scare into those copper-skinned devils so they would leave his territory of their own accord. At first, he considered cutting only the blonde Gypsy from the herd and sending her away. He didn’t think that would work, though. She was sure to have a man among the group—probably Prince Mateo himself—who would fight to the death for her. He finally decided it would be safest to arrest them all. But one never knew; anything might happen if some of them panicked.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Come,” he called.

A soldier in parade dress uniform stepped inside, saluted, and said, “The lookout just spotted them, sir. They should be approaching the gate in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Corporal.”

The door closed and Custer took a deep breath. He glanced up at the hunting trophies mounted about his walls as he tied his red neckerchief. The moose, the elk, the mountain lion—he had faced them all fearlessly. Now he must do the same with this wild band of Gypsies.

Charlotte felt more nervous than she would have liked as she rode next to Mateo at the head of the circus parade. Up ahead, she could see the high wooden walls of Fort Leavenworth. Soon they would be inside, in a world that had become alien to her over the past weeks. She didn’t feel like one of them anymore. She thought like a Gypsy; she felt like a Gypsy. How would it feel to be among the
gajos
once more?

“We’re almost there,” Mateo said as much to himself as to Charlotte.

“Yes,” she replied. “Mateo, I’m so nervous.”

He looked down into her wide brown eyes and flashed her a broad smile. “That is good! You’ll put on a better show that way. The horses are keyed up, too. They know what is about to happen. They look forward to going through their paces and to hearing the applause that follows. Just remember, Charlotte, that not one of those watching can do what you can do. They will think you magnificent!” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You are, my love, you truly are.”

Behind them trailed the rest of the troupe—the ringmaster in his splendid suit of shiny black; Petronovich and Phaedra, the silver gleaming on their emerald-and-purple costumes; Lantro, the juggler, with his glittering orbs and plates; the old dog woman with her dancing mongrels; and, of course, Poor Little Pesha and her band of ragged beggars, ready to work the crowd.

Charlotte hadn’t mentioned Tamara’s fears to Mateo, but deep down he knew. Never before had the fortuneteller refused to accompany them. But today Tamara had chosen to stay in camp by the bedside of the ailing queen. It was only an excuse; Mateo saw that. Something was worrying Tamara. He tried not to think about it, but he, too, could feel clouds gathering, although the day was fine.

A great cheer went up from the wall of the fort as sentries swung the heavy gates open for the Gypsy troupe. Women, children, and soldiers scurried about, choosing their seats. Custer’s pack of hounds yapped and howled. And his pet pelican found its favorite perch outside the colonel’s quarters, flapping its broad wings and opening and closing its huge beak soundlessly in excitement. To all of the Gypsy band, including Charlotte Buckland, the army post seemed a strange, exotic place.

Mateo led his troupe to the reviewing stand, where Colonel Custer rose from his seat to greet them. While the yellow-haired officer delivered a brief speech of welcome, Mateo scanned the crowd and frowned slightly.

Sitting beside the Colonel was an attractive young woman in a red-and-white-striped gown, who seemed set on killing Charlotte with her look. Next to her was the officer who had paid to bed Charlotte. He directed his gaze anywhere but at the two of them. And right behind him sat Major Winston Krantz. He, too, was staring at Charlotte, his mouth sagging open, his pale eyes almost popping out of his head. Perhaps, Mateo thought, she reminded the poor man of the woman who had left him at the altar.

“And now, Prince Mateo, if you will be so kind as to show us your wonders.” Colonel Custer smiled and took his seat.

Mateo noticed that the woman next to the colonel leaned close to him, whispered something, and nodded toward Charlotte. Custer nodded back and shot a quick glance at the Golden One, his smile vanishing. Mateo’s frown deepened. Something was afoot.

Meanwhile Charlotte was having trouble breathing. Lord, what had she gotten herself into? It couldn’t be, but it was! Winston Krantz, in the flesh—all of it! And he was staring at her. He had recognized her immediately. Her instinct was to put heels to horseflesh and take off out of the gate as fast as the stallion could carry her. But where could she go? Now that Krantz knew she was here, he would track her down. It was only a matter of time. Of all the army posts in the country, why did Winston Krantz have to be stationed at Fort Leavenworth? This must be what Tamara’s nightmares were all about. Why hadn’t Charlotte heeded her friend’s warning and stayed in camp?

“There will be no trouble,” whispered Mateo. “We will put on our performance and then we will leave…
quickly!”

His words stunned Charlotte. “But how did you know?”

“I’m the man who hauled him out of your bed and threw him over the balcony railing, remember?”

“Oh,” she replied, realizing suddenly that they were anticipating trouble from different areas. She wondered if she should tell Mateo about Krantz, then decided there was no reason to if he planned to whisk her out of the fort as soon as they’d done their act.

The Gypsies used the stable at the far corner of the post as their staging area. Mateo and Charlotte waited as act after act preceded theirs—he pacing, she growing more nervous by the minute. The horses seemed to sense their disquiet and stamped impatiently. Mateo soothed them with quiet words, but there was nothing he could do to help Charlotte. She fully expected Winston to come out of the stands and grab her, laying his claim, the minute she entered the ring.

Suddenly, male voices roared. Whistles and applause filled the air.

“Phaedra,” Mateo said, and Charlotte nodded, knowing that the woman would be playing to every man in the audience, seducing each one with a smile, a wink, a twitch of her shapely hips.

The four people seated on the main stand—Custer, the Delacortes, and Winston Krantz—were all caught up in their separate thoughts.

Annabelle, her head turned slightly away from the ring so that she wouldn’t have to witness the wanton performance of the woman and the trained bear, was watching her husband out the corner of her eye. He was eating it up! She’d been mistaken about the blonde Gypsy. It wasn’t just that one who interested him; it was any of them, perhaps
any other female.
Maybe she’d been wrong to try to save her marriage. Maybe there were some men who simply could not survive on the love of one woman alone. Seeing his reaction to Phaedra—his sweating brow and wide eyes, his trembling hands, and the bulge in his uniform trousers—she was convinced of it.

Custer and Krantz, although quite taken with Phaedra’s sensual beauty, were impatient to see the Golden One again. To Custer, she had looked like a beautiful, startled doe, with those large brown eyes and her smooth, sun-gold skin. She was indeed exquisite. Her cape had covered her form as she’d ridden in and sat before him on the great stallion. He was fascinated by her. Surely she could not be total perfection. But the way Prince Mateo devoured her with his eyes made the colonel suspect that she had few flaws. He was anxious for her to enter the ring so that he could judge for himself.

Winston Krantz’s curiosity ran far deeper than Colonel Custer’s. Was this some trick of his mind—some guilty reaction to the letter he’d written to Charlotte’s mother? Surely the Golden One and the shy young woman he’d planned to marry couldn’t be one and the same! What would a refined Kentucky belle like Charlotte Buckland be doing with a wild band of Gypsies? But that face… those eyes! Could it be she had a double? Either thought was staggering.

The major mopped his brow with his handkerchief and hardly took any notice of the bear-baiting beauty in the ring. His eyes remained fixed on the stable door, hoping for another glimpse of the Golden One, as the Gypsies billed her.

Then, in a swirl of green-and-heliotrope gauze and a flash of silver spangles, Phaedra swept out of the ring, followed by the whoops and cheers of the soldiers. The ringmaster reappeared and began to introduce Mateo’s act. Eloquently he lauded the Romany prince’s expertise with the great stallions. Silence fell over the spectators as he told of the fabulous Gypsy’s performances before the crowned heads of Europe.

“And assisting the great master of the
grai
, for the very first time in public, is the beautiful and mysterious Golden One. The lady is a legend in her own time. Wedded to the king of the leprechauns, this Irish Gypsy found the fabled pot of gold, and her wee husband decreed that she should forevermore gleam with riches. He, too, bestowed upon the Golden One her talent with the horses. It is said she speaks in words they alone understand—that she rides like the wind—that she has invisible wings It is my great pleasure to present to you… Prince Mateo and the Golden One!”

A huge wave of applause went up, filling the post and surrounding landscape like thunder before a storm. Mateo looked at Charlotte, smiled, and took her hand. Bringing her fingers to his lips, he kissed them.

“They are ours,” he said. “We will give them our best. And after we have finished and accepted their applause, we will give ourselves only to each other, my dearest.”

Charlotte smiled bravely. “I love you, Mateo!”

“And I you, my
sunaki bal.
Now, up with you!”

He boosted her up onto Velacore’s back and mounted the Black Devil.

“Hiyah!” he whooped, and the two of them pounded into the arena, their golden capes whipping in the wind as the crowd cheered and stamped.

The thunderous applause quieted as the two huge stallions galloped into the ring—Prince Mateo, in scarlet and gold astride his Black Devil, and Charlotte Buckland, the Golden One, gleaming like a sunburst on Velacore’s broad back. Around and around they rode in opposite directions, the riders bowing and smiling to each, other as they passed. An expectant hush awaited their first daring move.

“Hiyah!” Mateo gave his signal.

With perfect precision, he and Charlotte raised themselves until they were standing upright, the reins in their right hands while their left arms reached gracefully heavenward. As they rode in this fashion, the other four stallions filed into the ring—two behind Mateo’s mount and the other pair following Charlotte. Perfect timing! It was going well.

Charlotte felt her heart pounding as loudly as the horses’ hooves. So far everything was fine, but she could not relax and enjoy it. She heard Mateo’s next signal and nodded. Without lowering her head to see it happen, she knew that the pair of stallions had moved into position on either side of Velacore, the horses galloping now three abreast. Her next move looked far more difficult than it actually was. Still, it could be dangerous. One false step and she would slip between the horses to be trampled, if she weren’t crushed between their heavy bodies before she hit the ground. She waited and watched for Mateo’s nod, feeling her pulse race at the sight of him.

He was so beautiful in the ring—his every move strong, fluid, executed with perfect assurance. He stood now like a gleaming statue upon the Black Devil’s back, a broad smile on his handsome face, his dark hair whipping in the wind, the muscles in his arms and back rippling magnificently.

Another signal. Charlotte followed it automatically, sliding down to a sitting position with her legs over her mount’s right side. She raised her arms high, smiling at the crowd and accepting their applause. Then slowly, carefully, she eased her body down. Soon she was facing the sky, her head on the inner horse, her back on Velacore’s, and her toes on the other, pointed toward the audience. She raised one leg and then the other, careful not to shift her position too drastically. Mateo, she knew, was performing the same maneuver on the opposite side of the ring. She remained as she was, waiting for his whistle.

It came, and she tensed her stomach muscles to lift her head and legs, balancing now on her back alone as the other outside horses picked up speed and moved ahead of Velacore. The four spare horses spaced themselves perfectly in the ring and continued circling.

“I’m almost there.” She heard Mateo’s voice over the hoofbeats.

A moment later, her head leaning far back, she saw the Black Devil move in beside her. Mateo’s face looked into hers as he reached for her hands. His grip was sure and strong. Anything less would have brought them both tumbling from their mounts. Now they circled, hands locked tight, balanced precariously on their stallions’ backs.

“Up!” Mateo ordered.

With practiced timing, the two of them rose once more to sitting positions. The crowd screamed its approval. Charlotte felt the applause drumming through her body. It felt marvelous! She smiled broadly, waved, and bowed as she continued riding around the ring.

From Charlotte’s vantage point, the audience was only a blur of color and indistinct faces. She couldn’t have made out Colonel Custer’s broad grin, Annabelle Delacort’s frown, her husband’s smirk, or Winston Krantz’s agitation.

“Outstanding!” Custer cheered, applauding the pair enthusiastically. “Have you ever seen anything like it, Annabelle?”

“They are quite good. But frankly, George, I find that woman’s costume shocking. Why, she might just as well have painted her body gold!
Everything
shows!”

“And isn’t it all gorgeous!” the colonel said under his breath.

“Colonel, I’ve got to speak with you in private!” Major Krantz was leaning over, shouting frantically in Custer’s ear.

“Not now, Winston. Later, after they finish. That woman is the most enchanting creature I’ve ever seen!”

“That woman,”
Krantz continued in a shrill voice,
“is my fiancée,
Colonel!”

Custer turned in his seat, his smile fading. “You’re joking, of course!”

The perspiring major shook his head. “No, Colonel. That ‘Golden One’ is none other than Miss Charlotte Buckland of Fairview Plantation in Kentucky.”

“You can’t mean it, Major!” Annabelle shrilled. “George, they’ve kidnapped the poor girl! We must save her!”

“Yes, Colonel, we must!” Krantz agreed. “Why, her dear mother has been half out of her mind worrying over what’s happened to her.”

“Very well,” Custer said at last. “But after the performance.”

He wasn’t about to forgo a moment of Charlotte Buckland’s act. Besides, now that there was a white woman involved, he would have to alter the plans he had made earlier. Somehow he would have to get her away from the others before he made his move. He needed time to think.

“George?” Annabelle tugged at his arm, once more disrupting his concentration. “Did you see where Lance went?”

“No, my dear. But I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

Coming right back was the furthest thing from Lance Delacorte’s thoughts at the moment. Never mind the Golden One, he’d decided as he’d watched Phaedra tease her bear to a frenzy. He had slipped out of his seat and around the back way to the stables while the crowd was cheering Mateo and Charlotte. It hadn’t been difficult to lure Phaedra away from the others. Now the two of them were in the safest place on earth—the bedroom he shared with Annabelle. She’d never look for him there.

“So you liked my act?” Phaedra said, beaming into Lance’s flushed face. “Many men have told me that they would like to change places with my Boski—especially during the part when he licks my body all over.”

Lance was trembling, sweating, aching to do just that. He put his hands on her bare shoulders and brought her close, breathing in the strong earthy odor of her body.

“I’d like that, too. You’re a beautiful woman, Phaedra. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

She laughed. “Tell me something I haven’t heard before, horse soldier!”

He whispered an obscenely phrased suggestion into her ear, then said aloud, “I want you, woman!”

Her hands were on him now, pulling his shirt free, opening it, running her long nails tantalizingly over his chest. He groaned and clutched her close, crushing her hips to his thighs and holding her there to feel his heat.

“Oh, you
do
want me, don’t you, soldier boy! You’re like a stallion ready for his mare. I like a man who knows what he wants. But if my Petronovich catches us together, you may find yourself a gelding. He is one jealous
Rom!”

Lance pulled quickly away from Phaedra and saw the laughing light in her eyes. He wanted her, yes! But he’d already tangled with one of these wild Gypsies; he wasn’t sure he was willing to take on another—not even to have Phaedra.

“Where is this Petronovich?”

She laughed and hooked a finger in the top of his trousers to pull him back to her. “I am only joking with you, O brave one! You have nothing to fear from my man. He has left to go back to our camp already. Besides,” she said huskily, “I do as I please. And right now, you please me.”

Made bold by Phaedra’s words, Lance caught her in his arms and kissed her deeply. She moaned into his open mouth, arousing him beyond all limits. Still holding the kiss, he fumbled at the lacing of her silver top. In no time at all, he had a full, ripe breast in each hand. Phaedra’s large, berry-colored nipples distended, welcoming his touch. When she battered his tongue with her own, it was Lance’s turn to moan and quiver. He’d never been with such a bold woman.

Suddenly she pushed him away and ordered, “Take off your clothes!”

He stared at her. She stood there, her huge breasts bare and heaving, her hands on her hips, ordering him to disrobe in broad daylight before her. She was outrageous, but ever so exciting.

“Do it! Now!” she demanded. “I want to see what you have to offer me. Do as I say or I’ll leave this minute!”

Lance was out of his boots, britches, and drawers in no time. Phaedra walked around him, appraising him from all angles. At last she came back to stand in front of him, her dark eyes unmistakably focused on the main point of her interest. He had the urge to cover himself with his hands, but he knew if he did so, she would either laugh or leave. So he stood perfectly still, embarrassed, but at the same time strangely aroused by her frank gaze.

“You are not the best I’ve ever seen.” She shrugged. “But you’ll do.”

“Well, thank God for that!” he answered in a mocking tone. “Now you!”

Phaedra feigned modesty, pulling the silver top back up and turning away. “No! Never!”

“Like hell, woman!” He lunged at her, catching her laces in his fingers. They pulled tight about her waist and she gasped for breath.

“Let me go!”

“When I’m damn good and ready!”

He shoved her down on the bed, but she slipped away from him. A moment later, the naked man and near-naked woman were tumbling about on the bedroom floor in a lusty love-fight.

Charlotte and Mateo were once more astride their mounts, galloping around the ring. Mateo’s Black Devil caught up with Velacore. He flashed Charlotte a blinding white smile and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“You are superb, my darling!”

“You’d better wait until we finish this final maneuver before you start handing out the praise, my love.”

He blew her a kiss. “Not to worry, my
sunuki ball.”

Their moves perfectly in tune, they stood on their horses’ backs, with no reins this time to steady them. Charlotte dared take only shallow breaths. The Black Devil moved in so close to her horse that their flanks were almost touching. Like lightning, Mateo switched horses, leaping onto Velacore’s back behind Charlotte. He slipped his arm about her waist to steady them both, and she leaned into him, savoring the feel of his hard body.

The crowd grew silent, waiting to see what would happen. When Mateo slid to a sitting position, a general gasp went up. They thought he had slipped. But no! This was all part of the act.

A moment later, he leaned forward. Ever so carefully, Charlotte straddled his shoulders. He straightened. The horse picked up speed. Charlotte waved with both hands as she sat high above the prancing horse. The audience went wild.

“Well, George, that must be it,” Annabelle said. “I’m going to find Lance. He’s been gone a dreadfully long time.”

“As you wish, my dear, but you really shouldn’t miss any of this.”

Annabelle was already out of her seat, heading toward their quarters. She knew Lance wouldn’t be there, but she wanted to wash her face and hands after all the dust those horses had kicked up.

The door was not locked, but that wasn’t unusual: they seldom felt the need of such security measures within the safe confines of the fort. She went into the orderly living room. No, Lance wasn’t here. When he came in, he invariably dropped his riding crop or his hat on the sofa, in spite of all her complaints about his untidy habits.

Spotting the sherry decanter on the sideboard, she decided she might benefit from a bit of fortification. The dust was clogging her throat so she could hardly speak or swallow. And heaven only knew what kind of a row she and Lance would have when he did turn up…
if he
turned up! Yes, a drop of sherry would help in either case.

She walked to the front window and looked out, shielding her eyes against the blinding glare from the Golden One’s costume. What she saw almost took her breath away. The handsome Gypsy prince was still standing on his horse’s back with the woman astride his shoulders. As the great stallion continued a steady gallop around the ring, the blonde Gypsy maneuvered upward until she was standing on Prince Mateo’s shoulders. Annabelle held her breath, sure that the woman would never be able to maintain her balance. But she did it! Soon the two of them stood erect, towering over the people in the bleachers. It was a spectacular trick indeed. Annabelle felt she should have stayed to see it at closer range.

Once more the applause was like thunder. One hand occupied holding her sherry glass, she did not clap for the pair, but she did smile broadly and nod her approval. Then she took a seat, exhausted from the excitement of watching the daring performers. For the moment, all thoughts of her errant husband were forgotten.

While his wife sat sipping sherry in a most civilized manner in the outer room, Lance Delacorte was in a most uncivilized predicament on the floor of their bedroom.

Somehow—he wasn’t sure how it happened—the Gypsy woman had gotten hold of his rope and tied him up like a calf at branding time. He lay flat on his back, unable to move, as the half-clothed beauty taunted him beyond endurance. He had often had fantasies about being in just such an exciting position, but actually living it was something else altogether.

At the same instant that Annabelle had unstoppered the sherry decanter, Phaedra had tired of riding her hobbled mount. Now she was licking him all over in imitation of Boski’s attentions to her in the ring. Lance was writhing and almost choking to keep from screaming.

“Phaedra… Phaedra, don’t do that… please. Let me loose. Come on, now. I’ve had enough of this. What if someone comes in?”

She raised her head from his quivering belly and grinned at him. “Then I’ll go out the window and you’ll have one helluva time explaining yourself, my pretty horse soldier.”

“Oh, God!” He rolled his eyes and tried to think of an appropriate prayer to save him. He almost made a promise never to look at another woman again but decided that was
too
drastic. “You wouldn’t leave me like this?”

“Well, I am certainly not going to stay here and get caught!”

“Phaedra,
please
!” he moaned. “Untie me!”

Annabelle cocked an ear. She thought she heard sounds from the bedroom, but she couldn’t be sure: there was so much cheering coming from outside. She tipped her glass to her lips once more, but it was empty.