My Own True Love (13 page)

He made his way to the campfire where several of the older men sat talking. Sandor and Evan came with him, and Beng followed, still looking as if he'd rather stab him than welcome him as a son. Lewis ignored Beng as he squatted on his heels next to Hadari, the bear leader. The man slept in the same tent with his bear and smelled like it, but as the leader of one of the tribe's faction he was worth cultivating.

"There's a smuggling ship I know of," Lewis said. "Large enough to hold us all—
bardos,
horses, everything. It leaves Dover in three days."

******************

Sara ignored Lewis's words while she finished looking around the lamplit interior of his living quarters.

The
bardo
was a sort of horse-drawn RV, equipped with a quilt-covered bed and several painted wooden chests. Blue-and-yellow striped curtains covered the curved opening at the front of the wagon.

They'd entered through a narrow door in the back.

"How quaint," she said, looking at him at last. "I've read about these things and seen the ones at the Renaissance Faire, but I've never been inside a real one. My tribe abandoned
bardos
the minute the internal combustion engine was invented."

He was looking at her curiously, but she didn't care. Let him think she was crazy. It was his job to pretend he was somebody he wasn't, not hers. She yawned and stretched. "By the way," she told him.

"The state of my chastity is none of your business."

Lewis sat down on the bed and pulled his shirt over his head. Once he was bare to the waist he held his hand out to her. "Come here."

Sara pulled off the heavy scarf and shook out her hair. The jangling from the coins edging the cloth had been irritating her all night. She also took off the heavy silver earrings that had been part of her wedding costume. "Is that a feather mattress?"

Lewis patted the spot beside him. "It's soft. You'll like it."

"I'm sure I will," she agreed. "And a strip of Turkish carpet on the floor. How luxurious."

"I'm glad you approve." He made an expansive gesture. "This is your home now."

"The floor's yours," she responded.

Lewis glared at her. "What?"

"The floor," she repeated. "You'll be sleeping on it from now on."

"No," he said firmly. He slammed a fist down on the mattress. "This is my
bardo.
You'll sleep with me in my bed."

She shook her head. "We're not really married, right?"

He knew where this was leading. "Sara," he warned.

Sara twisted the ring around her finger. It felt dead, like nothing more than a small silver ring. She was definitely on her own. Just her against James Bond, Jr., here. "As long as I'm stuck with you and without cable in a tiny little wagon you're sleeping on the floor."

"You're my—"

"No, I'm not."

"Prisoner," he finished. He jabbed a finger at her. "Remember your position, girl."

"Ah," she said, pointing back at him. "Slave. I see. That translates as sex toy, right?"

“I—”

"Wrong." She noticed the man at least had the decency to blush at her accusation. "I'm not some stupid kid you can manipulate," she went on. "I'll only put up with so much blackmail, and screwing you on command is not part of the deal."

"I see." Lewis ducked his head for a few moments, contemplating just how thin and uncomfortable his pretty rug was going to be to sleep on, she hoped. When he looked back at her a slow smile spread across his undeniably handsome face. "Very well, I concede your point."

For tonight. He didn't say it, but he didn't have to. The look of challenge in his eyes said it all. Sara sighed.

Lewis hid his annoyance behind a smile. It wasn't important, he told himself. Bedding the girl was only a diversion, a reward he'd promised himself for all the unpleasantness of this mission. It would wait. He got up off the bed. He gestured her toward it. "Sleep well," he said, moving aside for her. He blew out the lamps as she climbed onto the mattress without taking off her clothes. He wondered if he should offer her his knife for reassurance, but decided that after her show of temper he might need it for himself.

He waited until she was settled before he stretched out on the wagon floor. "There will be a meeting of the
kris
tomorrow," he told her before turning on his side to sleep.

"Why?" came the curious question out of the dark.

"You'll find out," he replied. "And you'll play the good, quiet wife while the men talk, won't you?" He waited, but when no answer came he eventually drifted off to sleep.

******************

Toma had watched her carefully throughout the hours the gypsies had argued through his plan. She'd been tight-lipped the entire time the
kris
debated. She'd sat with the women, a red silk scarf covering her heavy black curls to indicate her status as a married woman. Because of his new status as a married man the tribe had listened to him. Even though it took a lot of talking, the men had voted in favor of his plan.

Very few of the women spoke during the meeting. He'd been surprised when his bride hadn't been one of them. Now he saw that she'd saved her words for a private argument.

"They want to go home," he said. "They've been exiles for ten years. I'm only showing them the way."

She sat down on the bed. She rubbed her temples wearily. "I know they have to go home, I've heard the story all my life about how the
familia
returned. But the story doesn't mention that there was a war on, it just sort of glosses over that part. This is stupid. People are going to get killed."

He saw that she was afraid and her fear bothered him more than her rambling words. He sat down beside her. He would have taken her hand in his, but she pulled it away. "I'll look after you," he promised. He wouldn't let her come to harm; he owed her that much.

"I'm touched," she grumbled. She looked him in the eye. "I'm not worried for myself. You're using a lot of innocent people to cover whatever you're up to. I feel responsible for them."

"Nonsense," Lewis replied. "There's nothing innocent about that lot of thieves and scoundrels. Gypsies are born survivors."

"They're expendable game pieces to you, you mean." She sighed. "You're a spy. You can't afford to have a conscience or care for anybody. You might lose your edge if you did."

Her bitter words stung, but he acknowledged their truth. "When did you get to be so smart, little girl?"

Despite the worry compressing her heart like a fist, Sara couldn't keep from smiling. "Little girl? How old do you think I am?"

"Sixteen. Or so you told me on the day we met."

"And how old are you?"

He gave her a superior smile. "I was born in 1785."

"I can do math," she told him. "That would make you twenty-six. Guess what? So am I." It was her turn to flash a superior smile. Should she tell him? Oh, what the hell. "I'll be born in 1968. I'm an Aries."

He laughed. "What nonsense."

"I'll concede that astrology might be nonsense. But I'm still going to be born in 1968." The annoying part was that he wasn't even looking at her as if he thought she
was
crazy. He was looking at her as if she was the most amusing creature he'd ever encountered. Maybe she was. This wasn't a particularly amusing time. "Okay, spy," she went on. "I know a little history, maybe enough to make this mission unnecessary."

He put his arm around her and pushed her back on the bed. He couldn't help it. Her words confused him, and piqued his curiosity. Every word was a lie, but she told her lies in such a charming manner he truly enjoyed listening to them. Her attitude was forthright, her speech clever. Damn, but the minx had a delightful way about her.

He hovered over her, his arms planted on either side of her, his face close to hers. "You've a pretty tongue, but I can think of better uses for it than storytelling."

He was grinning, and he was going to kiss her, she could see it in his eyes. "Now wait a min—" she began, but his mouth descended on hers before she could finish.

The man's lips touching hers sent a shock of sweet lightning through her. Which made no sense, all things considered. Her toes curled inside the thin leather of her shoes, her nipples hardened almost instantly as his body pressed against hers. She found herself clutching his back when she'd meant to pummel it. His tongue explored the inside of her mouth with heated thoroughness. She sighed against the softness of his lips, acknowledging that her overwhelming attraction to Toma still existed despite knowing exactly what Lewis Morgan was.

Overwhelming or not, she wasn't going to let him use it against her. "Sex," she said pushing him away,

"isn't all it's cracked up to be." Her words came out in a breathless pant.

He was still grinning at her when he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. He began playing with a loose strand of her hair. "What could be better than sex?" he asked.

His teasing tone galled her. "Self-respect," she answered. She scooted off the bed to stand and straighten her clothes.

Lewis stayed where he was, his shirt open, tight pants straining against muscular thighs, a lock of hair falling rakishly across his forehead, a devilish gleam lighting his bright blue eyes. He looked good and he knew it. She was considering throwing something at him when someone knocked on the wagon door.

Molly was inside before Sara could answer it. "Is it true?" she asked breathlessly. "Is the
familia
returning home?"

"It is," Lewis said, getting to his feet. He wasn't happy with the interruption. Besides, this woman's presence might jeopardize his new standing with the gypsies. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"Apparently," Sara answered her aunt's question. Molly held out a familiar canvas bag to her. "My guitar. Thank you. Beth?" she asked, taking the instrument. She sat back on the bed, pulled the guitar out, and began tuning it.

Molly shook her head. "I still haven't seen her." She looked appealingly at Lewis. "Do you know where the child might be?"

The mud lark's whereabouts was hardly any of his concern now that she'd played her part in his scheme. He shrugged as both women looked at him anxiously. "I wouldn't know," he answered.

Sara looked at him steadily over the sensuous curves of the guitar. Her slender fingers moved across the strings without her seeming to notice their movement. Her dark eyes looked searchingly into his. He got the distinct impression she was looking for his soul, but decided he was as hollow as the instrument she held. "Don't know, or don't care," she said at last, and looked away.

Sara put down the guitar. "I have no idea where to look for her." She rubbed the ring.
Do you?
she asked it.
Should I try at Mother Cummings's house?
The ring tingled faintly in response, but gave her no answer. The thing had gotten her into this mess, but it wasn't being any help. "Come on, Aunt Molly.

Let's go find her."

Lewis blocked the door when she tried to leave. "You're not going anywhere."

"There's a child out there who needs me."

He shook his head. "The brat doesn't want your help."

"I know. That isn't the point."

She tried to get past him but he wouldn't let her. "You're not leaving the camp."

"Oh, really?"

He wasn't impressed by her dangerous tone. "You're staying with Beng to help with the packing," he informed her. He took her arm. "I'm taking you to him right now."

"But—"

"Go home, Molly," he added to Sara's aunt. "There's nothing either of you can do about the girl." He opened the door and dragged Sara outside.

She had to squint against the sunlight of the hot August afternoon. People bustled around the scattered tents and wagons, hurriedly packing. She saw faces full of joyful anticipation as Lewis dragged her through the crowd to Beng's campsite. The laughter of children playing filled the air. These people truly looked forward to going back to Bororavia. They didn't know what Lewis Morgan was getting them into.

"You heartless scumbag," she said to him as they reached Beng's
bardo.

"You're too kind," was his mocking reply. He swept her a courtly bow. "You've no idea what your flattery means to me, my dear."

"Give me a hint," she returned, but he turned and walked away without another word.

"Arguing already?" Beng asked, coming up beside her. "Good."

Saffron Hill was the rookery's
name. With a name like that it should have been a pretty, quiet little neighborhood. But Lewis knew as he walked through the filthy, narrow streets that he was in one of the worst slums in London. He didn't know why he was here, not really, but he didn't have time to brood. He was too busy concentrating on watching his back while he made his way to his destination. The flash house didn't have a name but the owner was called Mrs. Hart. His father had once kept her as his mistress when she was young and pretty. Now that she was neither she rented the rooms of her house to young bawds and thieves.

Beth had grown up here until she'd been sent to Mother Cummings to learn the craft of pickpocketing.

When he'd heard of the child's connection to the Hart woman he'd purchased her services in his game to ensnare the top burglar in London. He suspected Beth might be his half-sister. Which was why he was here, really. He didn't owe the mud lark anything, but it galled him that a gypsy thief showed more concern for the child than any of her own kindred ever had.

He ignored the girls who approached him as soon as he stepped through the door. "I've a pretty wife waiting at home," he told the most persistent of the pack. "Where's Beth?" he asked when the gray and drawn owner of the house approached him.

"I told 'er she 'ad no right comin' 'ere," the woman assured him. "Wait 'ere, sir, while I fetch 'er for you."

Lewis nodded and found a seat near the room's one window. The chair was rickety, the paint was faded to an unrecognizable color, the floor hadn't seen a scrubbing in ages. A reek of boiled cabbage from the kitchen blended with sour sweat in the close air. At least two of the girls lounging in mended and dirty shifts were heavy with child. Lewis shook his head while he waited, and ignored the girls' looks of open invitation. There was a pretty girl waiting for him at home. And by God she could kiss! His body ached to find out what more she could do. Besides, his muscles also ached from time spent resting on floors. Such uncomfortable sleeping arrangements were going to have to be altered.