Taken by the Wicked Rake (11 page)

She tried to imagine any of the men she knew taking it upon themselves to capture her. Alexander Veryan?

She shuddered. It was impossible. There was no question in her mind that he lacked the resolve to take her anywhere. Even if he was capable of an attack, she doubted that he would risk something he could have gained legally with her father’s blessing, because of an excess of passion for her. And even if he had, she would have told him not to be foolish, and he’d have released her immediately.

But she knew Stephano Beshaley to be capable of ruthlessly taking what he wanted. And while he had pretended interest to snare her, now that she was caught, he was showing none at all. She could not help wondering what it might be like if he cared. Suppose last night, he had closed the door of the wagon and finished what he had started…

Quite probably, it would have been horrible. She swallowed her frustration and hit the bread again.

Magda looked over her shoulder, startling her. She examined the dough and pro claimed it ready. Then she explained the setting aside, the rising, the punching down again, and how she would know when to place it in a pan on the fire. And when it would be ready to eat.

Verity remembered the smell of fresh bread. She might be a pawn in someone else’s game, but at least she would not go hungry.

Then Magda gave her a large pile of unpeeled car rots, a bowl and a knife. Verity smiled. Apparently, she had found her destiny.

~***~

Stephen made his way back through the beeches with the brace of rabbits he had snared for the night’s supper. And with each step nearer to camp, he could feel the pressure in his head begin to diminish. It was not until after he’d left the vardo that he had realized the truth. The only pain that had been with him, as he’d spoken to Verity Carlow, was the one in his hand. That had been as bad or worse as on the previous day. With Nadya gone off with Rhys Morgan, the
gaujo
she had married, the tribe was without a healer. Perhaps Magda could look at it, and see if there was anything to be done.

But though the cut might be infected, his head had been clear for most of the morning. There had been the one difficult moment, when he had first got up to dress. But the flash of pain had faded as he’d talked to her, dimming to nothing. It had been good to see the belief in her eyes when he had told her he did not mean to hurt her. She might not have liked his words, but she trusted him as much as someone in her position could.

And it had been good to tell her the truth of his life, no matter how mad it must sound to her. It raised the old desire in him to have a woman – not just to share a bed, but to share a confidence. Whether she liked it or not, he had shown her the contents of his soul. And for a moment, the burden on his mind had lifted and he had been free.

Then she had ordered him away and the pain had returned. Now that he was coming back to her, the pain was fading again. It would be a cruel jest indeed if he were to discover that the true path to peace led him directly to Verity Carlow. If that was the case, all hope was lost. Even if she could forgive the kidnapping, she would hate him for ever if he proved her father a murderer.

To test his theory, he walked towards camp with eyes on the ground, ignoring his surroundings and letting his head lead him. And like metal to a lode stone, he came directly to Magda’s fire, where his hostage sat with a bowl of potatoes in her lap, peeling, slicing, and gossiping with the other married ladies. She looked up at him with her lovely hazel eyes, and frowned.

If the day had not gone wrong before, it was most assuredly so now. He reached absently into a nearby pan, and stole a hunk of bread, letting the scent and taste of a good food calm his nerves.

“You like?” Magda grinned at him.

“Good.” He nodded, frowning at the girl across the fire.

“A first effort, from the
bori
. She learns quickly.”

“
Bori
? You do not have a daughter-in-law.”

“You gave me one, yesterday. She made the bread you are eating.”

He choked on the crumbs still in his mouth. “You are forcing an earl’s daughter to work in your kitchen?”

“It makes no sense for an old woman to do for a healthy young one. And I did not force her. She offered. Her hands are too soft to be much help with drawing water or tending the fire. But she did well with the bread. And now, she helps with the stew. You chose wisely with this one, Stephano.” She gave him an approving nod.

“I did no such thing, mother of curses. She will return to her own people when I am done with her.”

Magda slapped him on the arm. “And then, who will make your bread?”

It was such a strange question that he could not answer it. He had no wife. He had no plans to take one. And if he did, he could not even imagine what kind of woman it would be. He could have his pick of the Rom girls, and live in a tent or a wagon, or would he marry as Stephen Hebden, and have a
gadji
wife to live in Bloomsbury Square and preside over the servants in his kitchen?

He would have to choose one or the other, when the time came, for there was no way that he could have both. He looked at the crust in his hand, and tossed it into the fire. Which was a pity, for it had been very good. Then he gave his grand mother a roguish grin and a hug. “You will make bread for me,
chivani
woman. You are so fond of my company that you will not let me go.” He laughed, hoping she would join him in the joke.

But instead, she cursed under her breath. “I will not feed a man so foolish that he could not find the food if it were put under his very nose.” She pointed into the fire. “And one who wastes that which he has been given. You may starve, for all I care.” She turned and stomped away from him, going back to her tent and letting the flap fall in such a way that told him she wanted a door, if only for the satisfaction of slamming it.

“At least you will not go hungry,” he called after her, and set the rabbits aside to be skinned and cooked. Magda was angry with him again, and he hardly knew why. Only yesterday, she had been furious with him for bringing Verity to the camp. Now it seemed they were the best of friends.

And without even turning to look, he could feel Magda’s little
bori
coming to talk to him. The currents of pleasure and pain in his head shifted as though they were dust on the wind and she a fresh breeze. “And what do you want from me?” he said, and turned quickly to see her startle.

But she stood her ground, and lifted her chin in defiance, holding the potatoes in front of her, as though she feared that he might come too close. “I wish to know something.”

He held out his empty hands to her, and then pulled them back, for they were stained with the blood of the animals he had killed. “What more could you want from me? I am already like an open book to you.”

“You claim you want justice for your mother and father. Is that correct?”

He nodded.

“But how is it just that I am to be tried and punished along with my family, without knowing the charge against us. You say we have been cursed by your mother. But I have never heard my family speak of it.”

“Never?” He had grown so used to hearing the words, and their fatal nature, that it had never occurred to him he might be alone in the knowledge.

“Why
should
we speak of it? Only the guilty would have something to fear from such a thing. If my father knew of the curse, he did not dwell on it, nor did he worry us children with it.” He could see the truth in the depths of her wide hazel eyes.

So the Carlow children did not think themselves cursed. It made a strange sort of sense, when he thought of it. They had grown into happy, confident adults, no matter the stain their father had passed to them.

But the Wardale family had grown in a different way entirely. Nathan Wardale had known of the curse, even before Stephano. It had been at his father’s hanging that Jaelle had said the words. And poor, innocent Nathan had grown into a superstitious man, convinced that his life was tainted by Gypsy magic.

“Mr Beshaley.” She said his name sharply, to break into his reverie. “If my family is truly cursed by yours, I would like to hear the words, please.”

It was a reasonable demand. But why, now that he had the opportunity to deliver the curse in person, was it so hard to say the thing? The skin of his cut palm burned, as though pricked by hundreds of needles. He wrapped the fingers of his good hand around it, trying to numb the feeling long enough to think.

“Stephano, I am waiting.” Now, she put aside the bowl and stood before him, hands on hips, as though she would not let him pass without answering.

He closed his eyes and recited from memory. “I call guilt to eat you alive and poison your hearts’ blood. The children will pay for the sins of their fathers, till my justice destroys the wicked.”

She frowned. “And you think that this refers to my family?”

He nodded. “It refers to all who were involved in the death of my father.”

“But surely, it was meant for the Wardale family, if anyone. It was William Wardale that did the murder.”

“I have visited each of his children, in turn. Not only have they survived, they have prospered. My attempts to lay the guilt and blame at their feet have left them happier and more prosperous than at any time since their father’s death.”

She laughed. “Then I suppose we Carlows should welcome your coming. How bad a curse can it be if it brings success?”

It annoyed him that she found amusement in something that had been the very bane of his existence for so many years. “You will learn better than to mock this. If the curse is real, then the reason that the Wardales remain untouched is plain enough. If their father was innocent of the crime, then the Wardale children have suffered to no purpose. Since their previous misery was the result of your father’s false accusation, it is a wonder they do not curse you, as well.”

Verity waved her hand. “I know the Wardales. And while Nathan might have some of the same outlandish notions you do, they are far too sensible to curse us over this. If they have a serious grievance, or were in possession of evidence that would prove my father a murderer, they would have gone to the courts with it by now.” She smiled. “Since they have not? Then we have nothing to fear.”

“Not all wrongs can be settled by law, Lady Verity. If your father deserves punishment, there is nothing he can do to escape the end my mother wished for him.”

“If you understand the curse correctly,” she added.

“And I do. I have lived with the words for most of my life.”

Verity Carlow’s smile turned to one of triumph. “Do you? Truly? For there is a family that you have not mentioned in this. A man who wronged your mother more than any other did, and whose children, by her own words, need to be punished.”

Had he missed someone, after all this time? If there was another, then he could set her free. If there was the slightest chance that her father was innocent, he would turn from the Carlows and not look back. For after staring into her strange green-brown eyes, he had lost the heart to persecute her. “Another family? And who might there be that deserves this curse, more than you?”

“Why you, of course. You are the son of the man who seduced and abandoned your mother. It was his treachery in taking you that led to her madness and death. And if what you say is true, you have suffered more than any of us. I suggest, Stephano Beshaley, that before you come to my family with these threats, you listen to your own curses, and put your own house in order.”

Chapter Seven

After supper, she sat by the fire, enjoying the peace of the woodland changing tonight around her, and the pleasant hum of conversation. More people were willing to speak English around her, since she had proved her worth. And now that they had stopped excluding her, she found Stephano’s people to be good company.

They took great pains to impress upon her how lucky she was to have found favour with the great Stephano Beshaley. They could not say enough about his strength as a fighter, his wisdom as a leader, his shrewdness as a trader, and his travels to the Orient and India, from which he had returned with great wealth. And all this from one who had the misfortune to be born half
gaujo
. They spoke as though having a baron for a father was a disability that he had overcome. But they had forgiven him his parentage and assured her she was most fortunate to have captured his attention.

No matter how she tried, she could not seem to convince anyone that she was the captured and not the capturer. They could not fathom the idea that she had not come willingly to them, and did not wish to remain. In their eyes, nothing was better than the life of a Rom. They explained that, although she might not realize it, she did not need rescuing. She had, in fact, already been rescued from whatever unfortunate life she had been forced to lead.

It was annoying to think that they might be right. But for the problem of her captivity, and coming unwilling to it, she had to admit that she was enjoying her time in their camp. The everyday running of a household was quite different, when the house was a tent or a small wagon and one had to do all the work for it oneself. But the freedom to take one’s shoes off and wade in the stream if one wished was a novelty that she was not likely to experience at home.

She frowned. It was very worrying to realize that she did not think of her home with the same longing as she had while with the Veryans. Another day had passed, and there was still no sign of her brothers. She had not thought of them at all since morning. And now that she had, it was only to worry that a sudden rescue would give her no time to say a proper goodbye to the Rom women she had met, or to arrange for further visits with them.

Once she returned home, she would never see Stephano Beshaley again. In a strange way, it was flattering to be the captive of a man who others held in such high esteem. She had to admit that, if the stories were true, he did seem to be most intelligent. And from the first, her own two eyes had shown her that he was the most handsome man she had seen, either in polite Society or in a Gypsy camp.