Taken by the Wicked Rake (8 page)

“And now, you are a frail old granny, and shocked to death by this slip of a girl. Ayyy!” He threw his hands in the air and then reached for the loaf of bread. “Perhaps you will treat her better, if she is my wife.”

“You would not.” His grand mother looked sincerely horrified by the idea.

“I would.” He walked over to Verity Carlow and offered the bread to her.

She looked at it with suspicion, and made no move to take it, so he forced it into her hands. “You are hungry. Eat.”

She looked to Magda, trying to understand the cause of her distress. “Never.”

“It is not poison. Here.” He held out his hand for the loaf, and she gave it back to him, just as he had known she would. He took the bread, and held it out to the old woman. “Salt the bread, Magda.”

“No.”

“Such disagreeable women. You are no better than she. Now salt the bread.”

His grand mother reached into the pouch at her side, took a pinch of salt and she sprinkled it on his bit of bread. He ate. “There,” he said in Romany. “The girl has given me bread. And I have eaten it.”

“She does not know what she is doing.”

“Neither do you, if you mean to stop me. Now salt the bread for her.”

Magda offered another pinch of salt, as the girl watched in curiosity.

“What is she doing?” she whispered to Stephano.

He spoke clearly in English, and made his voice calm so as not to frighten her. “It is only salt. We some times eat it this way, in ceremony. It is a form of protection, and a public proof of my pledge not to harm you.” He held up the loaf so that others could see what he was doing, and a murmur of surprise travelled through the camp. Then he offered the bread to Verity again. “Eat.”

She looked at it, and he could see her mouth begin to water. Even if Magda had fed her, he doubted she had eaten much. And then she looked at him, as though gauging whether she could trust him. He could see the moment that she decided it would be better to accept his peace offering than to fight him on small things. At last, she took the bread from his hand and ate.

He looked at Magda and switched back to Romany. “There. Are you satisfied now? Bread and salt, from my hand to hers, and hers to mine.
Gadji
she may be, but she is my wife. And no one has the right to question me.”

“You mock me.”

“I show respect to you, and to her.” He looked back to the girl, still eating her bread, unsuspecting of what had occurred. He touched her hair, and she froze as he loosened the last of the pins that held it, until it was free. Then he pulled a scarf from around his throat and offered it to her. “Cover your hair.”

He had pushed her to rebellion. She shook free of his touch, and put a hand to her own hair, as though to guard it from him. “You have no right to tell me what to do.”

“I have every right. While you are in my world, I will offer you what protection I am able. But you would do well not to incite comment from the other men here. Now cover your hair.”

“As a disguise. Are you trying to make it harder for my family to find me?”

He smiled. “It is not necessary to disguise you. No one will find you here. But look around. In my world, a modest woman keeps her hair covered. And I do not wish the others to think that you are less than modest.”

“That I…” She glanced around the crowd, and he could see the fear returning to her face. She was imagining rape at the hands of the dirty Gypsies again. His stomach knotted at the insult. But if fear made her obey him? Then very well, let her continue to think his people were animals. She snatched the scarf from his hand and tied it about her head, as the other married women did.

He nodded. “While you are here, you will do as I say. With any luck, your visit will be short.”

~***~

After the unusual argument between her captor and the old lady, the camp settled down to enjoy their evening meal. Verity was wondering if it was appropriate to request more than the piece of bread she had been given, when the old woman appeared with a small bowl of stew and a bent fork. She thanked her, and tasted. It was a truly delicious hodgepodge of strange meats and vegetables that she suspected varied greatly ac cording to what could be shot or scavenged in the vicinity of camp.

Stephen Hebden, or Stephano as he preferred to be called, ate in silence on the opposite side of the fire. And when she offered an impersonal thanks to their cook, he muttered, “Magda.”

She looked up at him. “I am sorry. Were you speaking to me?”

“Her name is Magda. She is my mother’s mother.”

Verity nodded, for it explained much. “If she lost your mother, she must have been glad to have you back.”

“Not really,” he said, forking up another bite of stew. She called me half caste. Not a true Rom, be cause of my father.” He continued, without looking up. “And my
gadje
family thought much the same of me.” He used a bit of bread to wipe the gravy out of the bottom of his bowl.

Without his asking, Magda rose to refill it for him. She did not smile, and her ladle rapped sharply against the side of the bowl in disapproval.

But Verity suspected that the woman’s stubborn indifference masked a genuine affection for him. Despite his thoughts on the subject, the women in his life had loved him more than he knew. “It was not always thus,” she reminded him. “Imogen said that Amanda Hebden treated you as her own son, while you were in her house. And it broke her heart to lose you.”

“So I have been told,” he said, without emotion. “But she did not – she sent her own son to the foundling home when his father was gone. She buried her true son when he died, and she mourned over the grave. But when the place they sent me burned to the ground, she did not even come to claim my body.” The look in his eyes grew distant. “I remember the flames licking the walls, and the thick, black smoke. I could not see. I could not breathe. And all around me, the crying of children. And then, the screaming.” And for a moment, it was fear Verity saw on his face, as he stared into the campfire.

Without thinking, she reached out a hand to comfort him, for the picture was so vivid that she could imagine the screams of the dying children.

He ignored her gesture and gave a short, sharp laugh, as though to break the spell. “I called, and no one came. Death was all around. I crawled along the wall until I came to a window, and then I climbed out of it and dropped to the ground. My night shirt was on fire, so I rolled in the muck until the flame died. People were running about, crying and wringing their hands, but none was doing a bit of good.”

It was an amazing tale, and every bit as exciting as she had expected from the well-travelled Lord Salterton. “Perhaps they did come for you. But they arrived too late.”

He looked at her as though he thought her the world’s greatest fool. “My family did not look for me after the fire, because it was easier not to. It was easier for me to die tragically, than to admit their mistake. But no matter. I was not alone for long. There are always those who have a use for hungry strays.”

If she had been harbouring an illusion about a happy ending to the story, he quickly put it to rest. “Children are easier to boost through the back windows of closed stores, when one wishes to steal. They can run unnoticed through crowds, picking pockets and cutting purses, because they are small. If they are kept underfed, all the better. It is harder to run with a full belly. If they are caught? What does it matter to the thief master? If the child returns, beat him, and he will run faster next time. And if he does not? Then there are always other children.”

This was even worse than the last. To have escaped from the fire, only to be starved and beaten and forced to steal. She leaned closer, eager to hear more. “But you got away, did you not? And came to live with Magda and the others?” For strangely, it mattered very much to her. It was as though the little boy were a character in a horrible, sad story, and not the vile kidnapper by the fire. She wanted to know that his grand mother had found him and that all was well.

“You wish to know what happened? One day, I tried to pick the wrong pocket. Thom Argentari was my mother’s Rom husband. Or had been, until she hung herself, after my father died. Thom grabbed me by the ear, and would have beaten me for a thief. But he recognized me. And though he had every reason to hate me for being my father’s son, he brought me home.” Then, his smile turned cruel. “Good fortune for me. But bad for you. The sweet old lady who fed you today is the same one who taught me the curse that my mother laid upon your people. She says that I survived the fire so that I might carry it out.”

Verity stared down into the bowl of stew in front of her, wishing that she could afford to throw it back in the old woman’s face. But if she wished to survive this ordeal, she needed to take nourishment when she was able. Perhaps Magda was her true enemy. For at times, Stephano sounded no hap pier with his role in this than she was with being treated as his pawn. If there was something she might do, to turn him against his family…

“It is late,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “And time for bed.” His eyes flicked to the wagon.

In truth, she was exhausted, having slept little other than her nap by the fire. She could use a real night’s sleep in a real bed. But the prospects available were daunting. “Where…” she began cautiously.

“In the vardo. With me.” There was a chuckle of appreciation from a man at a nearby fire.

She stood up and the bowl in her lap fell to the ground, spilling the remainder of her dinner into the dirt. “I most certainly will not.”

His glance shifted from her face to the food on the ground, and back, and his frown became a glare. “Perhaps you do not understand your situation,
Lady
Verity. You are my prisoner. If you do not do as I say, I will force your cooperation. If you mean to waste the food that Magda gives you, I will not allow her to feed you at all. Pick up the mess you have made.”

She could feel herself colouring with shame at the carelessness. The stew had been good, but it was humble fare. It was possible that the old woman could barely afford to feed herself, and Verity had dropped her share of it into the dirt as though it was nothing. She picked up the bowl and scooped the spoiled meat into the fire, then whispered an apology to Magda. And then she remembered the reason for the accident and said, “In your tent, is there space for me? I would not need much. A rug upon the ground, perhaps…”

And for a moment, she suspected the woman might accept her.

“No.” Stephano’s voice cut through the silence. “I forbid it. I have offered you my hospitality. You will learn to be grateful for it.” And without warning, he seized her by the wrist, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

For a moment, she was too shocked even for outrage. Her mouth had been open, ready to pro test when he had grabbed her. And now, he was inside it. Certainly, this was a mistake. In a moment, he would push her away in disgust. Or perhaps this was how all Gypsies kissed, because he did not seem to be the least surprised by what was happening. His tongue was stroking hers with an almost lazy possessiveness, as though he had known all along that they would end up, just like this. His one hand was still on her wrist, but his other hand twined in her hair, and his thumb was moving back and forth against her neck as though urging her to respond.

And Lord help her, she wanted to. This was wonderful. The night air was cool, but his body was warm and the scent of it was an elusive combination of fruit and spice that made her think of the sunlight and the heat of summer. His touch was a perfect blend of rough and gentle, and she felt the movement of his mouth on hers, and deep within her. It was as though he had found a way to be come part of her, to share his soul with a single kiss. She had nothing to fear from him, for he offered pleasure beyond anything she could imagine. She had but to go with him to the vardo, and give him her body, as she had her lips.

Someone laughed, and there was a shout of approval. The sounds brought her back to reality: she remembered where she was, and who she was, and who she was kissing. And she began to fight him, turning her head from side to side to escape his mouth, and beating his chest with her free arm.

He stepped away and released her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. But his angry expression was gone, replaced by momentary surprise and then a satisfied grin. He stared at her and reached up to touch his own lips protectively, as though she had been the aggressor and he the innocent victim of her lust.

Her fists balled at her sides, rage towards him mingling with the shame of knowing that they had been observed. She looked at the people gathered in groups around her, longing to see a friendly face. If there was someone who was at least willing to speak English in her presence, then maybe they could talk reason to the dark man in front of her. But there was nothing but curiosity in the faces of the on lookers.

“We will go to the vardo, now.” Her captor’s smile had changed. It was a knowing look, the smirk of a conqueror.

The crowd around them stilled, as though she were nothing more than a player on a stage and they were as eager to see what would happen next. There was no indication that they would help her if she asked, or intervene in any cruelty that the Gypsy might inflict on her. Her struggles would be further amusement for the tribe, and would take from her what last bit of dignity she might possess. So she looked at the man in front of her, and said clearly, so that all might hear, “You will be sorry for this. I swear.”

And her few words seemed to be more than enough to satisfy them. Although her enemy was unmoved, the others looked away, fearing to meet her gaze. She saw a flurry of hand signals, as some people around her threw up wards against her, while others fumbled in pockets and at throats, reaching for talismans or lucky pieces.

And then, the fearsome Stephano Beshaley flinched. She was sure that his reaction was in voluntary, and so swift that he did not realize he had done it. But for a moment, he looked as shocked and as pained as if she had slapped him hard upon the face. Then he blinked, and formed his hand into a fist, before flexing the fingers.