Taken by the Wicked Rake (13 page)

“When you rid yourself of the girl, you will rid yourself of the injury.”

“I will return the girl when I get what I want from her father, and not before.”

Magda pulled back the bandage and gave him a hard look. “Then for your sake, we must hope that you hear from George Carlow soon. You have a day. Two at most. After that?” She shrugged.

This was his grand mother at her most maddeningly cryptic. He had even less time and patience for her and her games than he did for the Carlow family. “This is but a scratch. Give me a salve for it. Or a draught of herbs.”

“You know better than me, do you?” Magda gave a bitter laugh and uncurled his fingers. “The cut is here–” she poked at his hand, knowing that it would cause him pain, “–right across the life line which was already weakened by a split. We all heard her curse you on the first day. And again, just now. I heard what she said to you before she ran to the vardo.”

He glared back. “That was no business of yours, Mami.”

She glared back. “If you wish privacy, then make love to her in your vardo, and not by my cooking fire. You insulted her, and she cursed you. The cut let the words into your blood. Now, you will pay for it.”

“That is utter nonsense.”

“As your actions have been. You were mistaken when you took her, for she has no part in the curse.”

“Not true. For it is against the children of the men involved.”

Magda gave an indignant sniff. “Look at the girl. For all her faults, is there a more innocent creature on the planet? You took her into your vardo, you treated her badly. Then you bound yourself tight to an angry woman by marrying her. I expected you to know better.”

“Very well, then. I should not have taken her.”
For so many reasons.
And now, it was even worse that he did not want to let her go. “There is little I can do about that, now. If I return her to Carlow before he confesses, it will all be for naught.”

“Then you must prepare to pay the price for your stupidity. There is nothing I can do for the cut on your hand. Only she can heal it by lifting the curse she has placed upon you.”

He felt a twinge of doubt. For if the old woman was right, there was little hope for him. “And why would she do that, after the way I have treated her?”

“That is a problem of your making, not mine. Go to her. Beg her if you must. But if she does not help you, there is nothing anyone else can do. The fever will come soon, and after it, death.”

He did not feel feverish yet, that was sure. He felt cold. But that was with fear, and fear could be controlled. He could not sicken now. She was the last, so she must be the key. She had to be, for if not to her, where else could he turn for justice? Carlow would weaken and confess, and the girl would be back with her family in no time. It would all be over soon. If it was not, then he did not need his life. For he could bear to go no further on the course that his mother had set for him.

He stomped back to his wagon for bed, and then softened his steps on the wooden stairs. She was already asleep within, or pretending to be so. If he was too loud, she would have to pretend to wake and he would have to speak to her. And then they would argue again, and neither would be able to sleep.

It was just as if they were married. He smiled at the thought. At some point, perhaps he would explain to her what had happened the night before when they had shared the salt and bread. And she would laugh at the trick he had played on her, putting her arms about his neck and lifting her face for a kiss.

He brushed his fingers against the cut on his hand, and let the wave of pain take the vision away, then pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it over a chair. It was perfectly normal to think of pulling off her kerchief and burying his face in the cloud of golden hair, touching his tongue to her ear and then whispering the sort of sweet things that would make her part her legs for an evening of dalliance.

But it was equally normal to imagine her leaving the next morning. What was he doing, thinking that she would stay, or that he would wish to keep her? Or that they would ever share pleasant memories about their first day together.

Of course, when she was not speaking to him, she did look surprisingly happy, for a prisoner. The way she had fought on the first day, he had imagined enduring a week of her company while she hurled invectives or furniture, weeping first for her mother and then for her maid. She would be little able to take care of her own hair, much less sleep upon a rush mattress in a vardo. She would turn up her nose at the simple fare, sneer at the other girls and sulk in the wagon.

But today, he had watched her help his grand mother with the supper, and talk and laugh with the rest of his people as though she were a part of the tribe. As soon as she had been sure of her personal safety, she had relaxed and treated the Rom around her as though they were her own people.

And when she smiled…

It seemed that very nearly everything made her smile. Even the company of Magda, who most times was the bane of his own existence. She had even smiled at him, on occasion, although she must understand that he was her sworn enemy. But when Val had walked past her, she had given him a special smile in acknowledgement, as though they shared a secret.

Val was a cocky devil, and Stephano guessed he had been trying to charm her for most of the day. Earlier, the children had been playing at conkers, and Val had scooped the nuts from the ground, juggling them nonchalantly and letting the strings stream behind them as they whirled in the air. Verity clapped her hands together in appreciation, and laughed as he caught them easily and made a deep bow before her.

She was clearly taken with Val and his tricks. Jealousy ate at him. He should have dragged her back to the wagon, just as he’d planned, if only to lecture her on propriety. For if she thought to parade herself before the men in the camp and gain a champion from them, he would teach her that the choice had been made on the first day. No one here would dare to challenge him, nor come between him and the woman he chose.

He shook his head. It was all nonsense. She might claim to be an innocent girl, but she used her feminine charms with the skill of a courtesan. She was driving him mad. Even in his own vardo, he was not safe from her. He could feel her watching him as he removed his clothes. But if he turned and looked at her, she would be feigning sleep with her golden lashes shading her green-and-brown eyes.

The heat in his hand seemed to flow up his arm to other parts of his body, pounding through him to the beat of his heart. Now he was imagining her naked in his bed, arms out stretched to lift the curves of her breasts, eager to please him, to show that Val and the others meant nothing to her. He reached out with his good hand to snuff the candle, for if he turned and she saw how hard it made him to think of her, she would surely be frightened. Or perhaps she would not. Had he just heard a faint sigh of disappointment from her side of the room?

Very deliberately, he closed his fist upon the cut in his hand until the pain was a blinding, deafening storm, drowning out all else.
She was not his woman.
She was a pawn, just as the others had been. Her youth and her beauty were immaterial. He’d have treated her just the same, had she been old and ugly. Their living arrangements were no more than an inconvenience to be borne until she returned to her family. Their marriage was a sham. She did not want him. And he did not want her. Anything else was a lie.

He lay down on the floor at her feet and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Then he said, since no matter what she might pretend, he was sure she was still awake to hear it, “Tomorrow, I will go to London, to negotiate for your release.”

There was definitely a little gasp this time. “You will see my family? Tell them I love them, and that I am all right and they needn’t worry.”

Which proved that she did not understand the nature of things at all. No matter how safe she might be, it gave away his advantage to tell her family so.

And then she said, “If they do not agree to your demands…” She paused to think, then said in a worried voice, “Just what do you mean to do with me if they do not give you what you want?”

“They
will
give me what I want. To keep from losing you, I expect your family would be willing to do anything.” For he could see, after only a few days, how they must value her and how much it would hurt to lose her.

“But they should not lie to save me. And that is what they would have to do, to give you what you want.” In the darkness beside him, she sounded so sweet and innocent; he wished there were some way to shield her from the revelations that were coming.

“Even if they do not, no harm will come to you. Perhaps I will keep you with me, if only to bake my bread.” He meant it to be a joke. But it occurred to him, after he’d said the words, that he might as well have been threatening her with a life of drudgery. “I am sure that we will reach agreement on the subject. You need not worry.”

“
Do not worry, Verity. It will be all right, Verity.”
She sighed again. “You have no idea how I tire of hearing those words. Especially when there are great reasons to worry. And all around me, people pretend that there are not. Do you all think that my youth equates with stupidity?”

He smiled, despite himself. “I suspect it comes from a desire to protect you.”

“A failed desire, at best. They did a poor job protecting me from you. And if you truly had my best interests at heart, then you would have left me where I was.” He could hear her shifting uneasily beneath the blankets. “Some times I fear that none of you see me for who I am. There is not a one of you who care further than the end of your own noses about what my future is likely to be.”

Although it did not matter, he closed his own eyes in the darkness, to make it easier to see her in his mind. And the pain in his hand turned to an ache not unlike longing. “Then I must prove to you that it is not true. Tomorrow, I shall go to your family. And if we cannot reach an agreement, then I shall plead my case to you, and you will decide what I am to do with you. Goodnight, Verity Carlow. Rest well.”

Chapter Eight

He rose before the sun, for the pain in his hand would not allow him to sleep longer, and set about the business of washing and dressing. It surprised him that Verity rose, as well. Apparently, she had given up on the idea of privacy, and went about her morning business much as he did, pulling on stockings and shrugging into her dress.

It took surprising effort to keep his back turned from her as she did so. And to keep his eyes focused on his own face as he shaved, rather than searching the reflection of the room behind him to catch a forbidden glimpse of her body. Down that path lay disaster. If he turned to look at her now, he would never let her go. And she must go home today, for her own sake and the sake of his aching hand.

He left the vardo and went to prepare Zor for the journey. She followed him in silence and stood by to watch, holding the horse’s head and patting his neck as Stephano saddled him. When he had mounted, she stood back and looked up at him with a sombre expression. “Travel safely,” she said.

He nodded, and spurred his horse out of the camp.

He went more quickly than he needed to, for despite the headache it caused him to leave her, it felt good to be doing what he knew was right. Whatever his business with her family might be, it could no longer involve Lady Verity Carlow.

When he arrived in London, he stopped first at his house on Bloomsbury Square. While he had no wish to put on airs and graces for the Carlow family, he was tired and sore. A clean shirt and a cup of tea would do much to restore him before the difficult meeting ahead.

As he always did when arriving from camp, he came into the house by the back door. Although the servants were used to his odd comings and goings and changes of name and costume, it was easier to avoid questions from the neighbours if Stephano Beshaley came in at the back and Stephen Hebden left from the front. But it meant that he was often well into the house before the butler noticed his presence.

And so it was today. He had walked several paces and thrown his coat upon a bench in the empty back hall, and had still not seen a soul. He called out to Akshat for his tea, and still there was no response. That was highly unusual. Even if the butler did not hear, the sound of his voice should have brought someone to welcome him.

And just for a moment, he saw the face of Jenny the parlour maid, popping out of the doorway to the study. She gave a quick shake of her head, before she disappeared again.

Something was wrong.

Before he could turn and leave again, Akshat appeared in the hallway ahead of him, walking stiffly, with none of his usual grace. Behind him stood Marcus Carlow, Lord Stanegate, with a pistol pointed into the butler’s back. Slowly, as if in a dream, he saw Stanegate start in reaction to his appearance and push the butler aside. There was the hesitation of less than a second, as Marcus brought the pistol up and prepared to fire.

Stephano turned to retrace his steps and leave by the back door again. But Nathan Wardale stepped out into his path. The man still had muscles earned from several years in the Navy. But Stephano caught him unawares and lurched into him as he ran, pushing past him and knocking him to the floor.

The impact saved Stephano’s life. There was a pistol shot as he careened off the opposite wall, and the woodwork splintered near the place where his head had just been. Stanegate gave a curse of frustration, and Wardale groaned from the floor. And from some where at the front of the house, there was the sound of others rushing to see what had happened.

It went against his nature to run. But run he did. He was out the back door without a second thought, sprinting to the place where he had left Zor. As he mounted and wheeled the great horse around, he saw Stanegate coming after him with the strength and speed of a great cat, and with as little mercy in mind. If they caught him, there would be no time for argument, threat or explanation. By the look on Marcus’s face, death would come so quickly that it would be no different than extermination. As Stephano rode past him, he was struggling to reload the pistol, while his brother Hal shouted cautions from the house about being so fool hardy as to fire a gun in the middle of the city.