Gypsy Moon (25 page)

Petronovich threw her a snarl and then was gone.

When she turned back, Ira Feldston was staring at her quizzically. “What’s all that about a purple scarf?”

She set about trying to make Charlotte more comfortable as she answered him matter-of-factly. “Petronovich and Phaedra are lovers, but she makes all the rules in the game. Whenever she wants him, she hangs a purple scarf outside her tent. If it is not there, he is not allowed to enter.”

The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “And he comes…
always?”

“Always, when summoned. He is her instrument of pleasure. There is no love between them, only lust.”

Ira Feldston stared at Tamara, his mouth slightly open in astonishment. He’d never had a woman speak so plainly to him, not even one of his patients. These Gypsies were indeed a breed all their own.

Tamara’s voice brought his thoughts back to the woman they were tending. “She seems to be sleeping now. I don’t think she has slipped away from us this time.”

“I agree. And at least now we know what the problem is. We have to find Mateo and get him here as soon as possible—he should have been with her all along.”

Tamara’s head drooped and her long hair hid her face from the doctor. “It’s my fault. He wanted to stay nearby, but I sent him away from her.”

“Why would you do a thing like that, Tamara? You must know that the nearness of a loved one always helps a patient.”

“Yes. But he got too near. One day I left them alone and he made love to her.”

“My God!” Ira knew he was blushing from his boot tips to his high hairline. Did these Gypsies answer any and all questions so frankly? “How did he accomplish that, when she had a broken arm and two cracked ribs?”

“Well, you see, he—”

“No! Don’t answer. I don’t think I want to know.”

The two of them lapsed into silence and took up their vigil once more. All night they sat side by side, watching for the slightest change, starting at any movement or sound. There didn’t seem to be much improvement, but at least Charlotte was holding her own.

“Time will tell,” Ira whispered as dawn crept into the tent.

“Yes.” Tamara nodded. “Time and Fate.”

“I have the brideprice!”

Mateo, absent for more than a week, plunked down a heavy bag before his astonished mother. It clinked with the sound of gold, and she stared up at his face—a stranger’s face, bearded with many days’ growth and carved deep with lines of weariness and anguish.

“Where have you been?” she asked quietly. “We have searched for you all this time. I thought you dead.”

“Only half-dead, Mother. I went upriver to buy and sell horses. Here are the fruits of my labor.” He indicated the leather pouch between them. “Two thousand dollars in
gajo
gold.”

“By the saintly Handmaiden! Mateo, that is more than twice the required brideprice!”

“A future queen should be bought with a king’s ransom, Mother.”

“Well, of course a generous husband is much respected, Mateo. But
two thousand
! It is a staggering amount, even for such a prize wife.”

Mateo uttered a humorless laugh. “Yes, such a prize!”

Queen Zolande was confounded by her son’s strange attitude. She had never seen him this way. He seemed angry, bitter, even hostile toward her. But why should he be? The day a man paid for his bride should be the happiest of his life. And Charlotte was much improved.

“Don’t you even want to know how she is, Mateo?”

Again the sardonic laugh. “I know full well. She is passionate, alluring, lusty, dangerous, and given to wicked excess. In a word: a
man-eater
! But she’s strong and healthy, a good breeder. She will give you many grandsons, my queen.”

“Mateo! How can you speak in such a way of Charlotte Buckland? She is none of these things you call her. If she were, you would not love her. And she has been anything but strong and healthy of late. Thanks be to Sara-la-Kali, she is almost herself again.”

“Yes indeed, we have the good black saint to thank for Charlotte Buckland’s recovery.” The thought of his promise to Sara-la-Kali tore his heart with pain. So Charlotte was better. He rejoiced in that but raged inwardly to think that he could not go to her… not ever again. “But this bag of gold is not for her purchase. I will take Phaedra as my bride.”

“Phaedra?”
The queen bolted out of her chair, staring hard into her son’s wild eyes. “Have you gone mad, Mateo?”

“Not yet, Mother, but I have no doubt my wife will do her best to drive me there in short order.”

“You can’t be serious! Why would you ask for Phaedra? You know she shares her pallet with Petronovich—with any man who will have her. You’ve fought this arranged marriage for years. Why would you suddenly decide to accept her now? Especially now when it seems that Charlotte Buckland’s love may have ended Valencia’s curse?”

The muscles in Mateo’s jaw tensed before he answered. “I do not believe it!”

“How could you not? Have you been visited by the curse of late? No! There is your proof. But you should need no other proof beyond your love for each other.”

Mateo picked up the bag of gold and dropped it once more in front of her, emphasizing his determination. He refused to discuss the matter any longer. He couldn’t admit to his mother that since Charlotte would never be his, he planned to marry a woman he despised to punish himself for all that had happened. “I will have Phaedra. I am going to her tent now to claim her.”

He stalked away from the queen, leaving her speechless and stunned. He was mad! There was no other possible explanation.

The other Gypsies stared after Mateo as he covered the distance from his mother’s tent to Phaedra’s in long, angry strides. The gold-handled whip, clutched in his right hand, whacked with threatening regularity at the top of his boot. Children scattered before him, and even vicious dogs whimpered, tucked in their tails, and slunk away to hide. This was not good Prince Mateo, but some coarse and ruthless stranger.

Mateo’s upper lip curled in a sneer when he came to Phaedra’s tent. Bright against the white frost on the canvas, the purple scarf fluttered nervously in the breeze—her blatant invitation to Petronovich. Mateo took a few steps back, uncoiled his whip, and lashed at the thing. The sharp report brought a scream from inside, followed by a stream of curses.

Phaedra threw back the tent flap and glared up at Mateo. Her eyes glittered like black fire and her teeth were bared in seething rage. She saw the shredded bits of purple fabric in Mateo’s hand.

“How dare you?” she spat at him.

“Petronovich is lucky he did not heed your signal so promptly this time. Had I found him lying with you, he would be in ribbons instead of your scarf.”

“Give that to me!”

She charged out of the tent and lunged, trying to grab what was left of the scarf. But Mateo was too quick for her. He seized one slim wrist and twisted it behind her back, bringing forth a fresh stream of obscenities from her lovely lips.

“No more purple scarves and no more Petronovich, my pretty whore! You are
my
woman now. I’ve paid a fortune for you and I mean to get my money’s worth, starting this very minute!”

Phaedra twisted around to stare up at him, her mouth wide in astonishment. “What are you saying?”

“I have delivered your brideprice to the queen. Now I intend to bed you. If I find you satisfactory and you prove to me that you can produce an heir, I will make you my wife.”

Before she could say a word, Mateo shoved her back into the tent. She landed, sprawled in her wolf skins, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. But her look of fear soon turned into a wanton smile. “Then I will be queen! I knew you would tire of your pale little
gajo
and come to me sooner or later!”

The look she gave him and the words she spoke filled Mateo with renewed rage. How he detested the woman he would wed!

“Mateo, no!” she cried as he came toward her, his whip poised to strike.

Charlotte’s periods of unconsciousness had ceased, but still she slept most of the time. Being awake and facing reality was too painful to endure for more than brief periods. Her whole world seemed to have crashed in upon her. She had no idea why Mateo had deserted her at the fort. Vaguely she remembered having him with her for a time while she was very ill, but it seemed almost as if that had taken place in one of her dreams. And now he had disappeared. No one had seen or heard from him in days. She had never felt more alone in her life.

Where could he be? And why had he gone away? No one knew. A melancholy pall had hung over the camp these past days. Charlotte’s mood reflected the same deep depression.

She sat by the window of the brides’ tent, looking out at the snowbound camp but not really seeing it. Her mind searched the past, trying to understand all that had happened to her since she’d left her home in Kentucky.

Suddenly, a change in the slow rhythm of camp life caught her eye. There seemed to be a great deal of activity around the campfire—people running, shouting, waving. The mob of brightly costumed Gypsies parted for a moment, giving her a clear view of Phaedra’s tent and the man standing before its entrance. Petronovich, she thought, losing interest. She’d noticed the purple scarf waving its invitation earlier.

She turned her eyes away, but something drew them back—the way the man stood with his feet wide apart, the tilt of his head, the tight cut of his buckskins. She looked again and her heart leaped into her throat.

“Mateo!” she breathed, not quite believing what she saw.

When the mighty whip cracked, however, there was no denying the truth. He was back. Her love had returned.

Charlotte bolted up from her seat and grabbed for her shawl. She couldn’t wait for him to come to her. She would fly to him and into his arms. Her heart and head felt light. Her world had reassembled itself miraculously in an instant. Then, in the next moment, all her dreams came crashing down around her. She watched, poised at the door to hurry to him, as Mateo followed Phaedra into her tent. The very life seemed to be flowing out of Charlotte. No man—not even Mateo—entered Phaedra’s tent for any purpose but one.

Charlotte slumped back in her chair. At first, the tears refused to come. Then, when they did, it seemed there was no staunching the flood.

“Get out of my tent!”

Phaedra was terrified of a man for the first time in her life. Still, she tried to hide it, issuing her order to Mateo in her usual imperious manner. He leered down at her, still clutching his whip, and laughed.

“
Your
tent? You forget. I have paid your price. Now you and all your belongings are mine. And I plan to claim them all…
immediately
!”

He moved toward her and Phaedra drew back, raising her hands before her as if they might bar his way.

“No, Mateo. Please,” she whimpered. She was used to issuing orders, not obeying them. Without her usual command over a lover, she knew only terror.

He fell to his knees beside her pallet, his mind black with anger and hopelessness. Grasping her shoulders in less than gentle hands, he drew her full lips toward his. Once he set his brand to her, his fate would be cast. His relationship with Charlotte Buckland would end for all time. He must take Phaedra now!

“The sooner the better,” he said through clenched teeth, then he crushed his mouth down hard over Phaedra’s.

She fought him at first—scratching, clawing, biting the lips that were ravaging hers. But soon her muffled sounds of anger became willing sighs. She turned pliable in his strong arms. Her hands kneaded his bare shoulders and chest, and her thrusting hips invited him to do as he would with her. The kiss lingered, their hot mouths and tongues doing intimate battle until both were gasping for breath.

Suddenly Mateo pulled away, shoving Phaedra back to the pallet. He stared at her, half of him feeling the lust she aroused, the other half knowing nothing but disgust for himself and this woman. She was smiling, her eyes almost closed. Her whole body writhed before him like a snake in search of its mate. She tempted him, lured him, dared him to possess her body.

“I know of no heirs produced by one kiss, Mateo,” she taunted. “Come to me. Take what you have purchased. Let my body sip the wine of your loins.”

She raised her arms to him. When he made no move to respond, she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, tempting him with her full, bare breasts.

Mateo felt the hunger that shone in his eyes as he stared at the large, plum-colored nipples. No wonder Phaedra maintained such a hold over Petronovich. Her body was truly magnificent. What man could resist such temptation? He leaned toward her and cupped the satiny globes in his hands. She closed her eyes, ran her tongue over her lips, and moaned. Her hands groped for him, finding her prize and stroking the bulging heat in his britches.

He dragged himself over on top of her and found her breast with his mouth. The taste of her flesh—like bitter fruit—came as a shock. He drew away and stared at her. Her curving lips dared him to try to leave her now. She was the spider, spinning her purple web, and he was the hapless fly.

“We will be good together, you and I. King Mateo and Queen Phaedra. I am better than your little
gajo.
No?”

She writhed beneath him, thrusting her breasts and her hips hard against him, but her words hit the wrong mark. Suddenly, he was snapped back from the heat of passion to the realization that this was not the woman he loved. Charlotte was in camp somewhere, waiting for him, needing him even as he needed her.

He started to stand up, intent upon leaving, but Phaedra caught his leg and held him fast.

“You cannot go now, Mateo! You told me yourself that you have offered the brideprice and it has been accepted. I am yours!”

He stood where he was, looking down at the self-satisfied smile on her face and the invitation of her heaving breasts. In spite of himself, he felt a surge of blood pulse downward. He hesitated and she rushed on.

“You say you want an heir. I am willing to give you the little prince your pale lover has denied you. You told us all that she was with child, but it was not true. Perhaps she is incapable of conceiving.”

Mateo frowned. He had been so sure that Charlotte was carrying his seed. What had happened? But it made no difference now. He could never have her.

“We both know that I am not barren. Pesha is my proof, the child of my own childhood, and as crafty a little wench as ever was born.” Phaedra saw that she had his full attention now and went on, pleased to find the opportunity at last to confess a long hidden secret to Mateo—one that would give her power over him even after he was king. “But then how could she be other than a true thoroughbred? Her bloodlines are of championship stock—out of Princess Phaedra, sired by King Strombol—
your own father.”

Stunned, Mateo jerked away from her. He had known that Poor Little Pesha was Phaedra’s child, but the father had never been revealed. Her words twisted through him as painfully as a knife through flesh. Then anger replaced that pain and he raised his hand to strike her lying mouth.

She smiled up at him. “Go ahead! Hit me! It will not change the truth. Strombol maintained the fire in his loins to his very last days. He was a powerful, compelling lover. Ask your mother, if you don’t believe me.”

His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “No more! Do you hear me?”

She shrugged, making her breasts quiver tantalizingly. “I only thought that since we are to be man and wife there should be no secrets between us. The fact that your father loved me so well, it seemed to me, would make you want me all the more. And it would be interesting to compare the son to the father. But in every thoroughbred line there is one throwback to a weaker strain. Perhaps that is you, Mateo. You’ve always been a hesitant lover. You may never be able to produce an heir. Still, I am willing to give you the chance to try. A king
must
have princes from his queen.”

It seemed to Phaedra that her confession and her taunting words had the desired effect. Mateo fell upon her once more. There had been little tenderness in his touch before; there was none at all now. His strong fingers bruised her flesh; his teeth bit at her nipples until she cried out in delicious agony. His hips ground against hers, crushing her down into the skins.