The Gypsy Duchess (20 page)

“And I am the man who intends to marry her,” Devon said, tightening his hold when Moira tried to squirm loose.

“It is forbidden that a woman of gypsy blood mate with a
gaujo,
but since the blood of this one is mixed, it might be considered.”

“In case it has escaped your attention, madam, Moira has already married one Englishman—and if such matings are forbidden, how did her blood get mixed to begin with?”

Moira watched her grandmother’s eyes flash with indignation at being addressed with such familiarity by a stranger. The Queen of the Gypsies raised her head with a hauteur few of the titled ladies of the
ton
could successfully emulate. “Her mother, my daughter, was given by our king to the man called Blackjack as a reward for transporting our people across the sea when we were forced to flee Spain.”

A look of dawning perception glinted in Devon’s eyes as he turned to Moira. “You are the granddaughter of
Deditas de Oro
!”

“I am and proud of it,” Moira said, raising her chin to the same level as her grandmother’s.

“And so you should be,” Devon smiled tenderly. “Very well, if I must, I will speak with your grandfather and ask his permission to marry you.”

“That is not possible. My grandfather cannot speak except through his fingers on the strings of a guitar,” Moira said sadly. “While the hangman’s noose did not take his life, it silenced his voice forever.”

Her grandmother raised her hand in a benediction reminiscent of Vicar Kincaid blessing his congregation. “But if he could speak, my children, he would tell you to take what joy life has to offer, even if it is for only one brief turn of the wheel.”

“What are you saying,
Abuela
?” Moira gasped.

“I am saying jump the broom tonight and celebrate your love in the sacred joining for which the Great Spirit of All Nature created man and woman.”

Devon frowned. “What does she mean ‘jump the broom’?”

“It is the gypsy equivalent of the Christian marriage ceremony.”

“Well, I am all for that,” Devon said, his smile wicked with sensual promise.

“Well, I am not!” Moira replied emphatically.

Her grandmother gestured imperiously to Devon. “Leave us,
gaujo
. I would speak to my granddaughter alone.”

“Do you truly love this man, my child?” she asked in the old language once Devon had withdrawn. “Or is he merely a fever that burns in your blood?”

“It is more than a fever of the blood,” Moira said. “I truly love him and I believe he loves me.”

“Then give yourself to him, for you will never love another. It is the curse of the women of our family that we love only once. If this man has won your heart, it will be his forever.”

“But you do not understand, my
abuela
. He is one of the great lords of the English. He would be scorned by his own kind if he married a gypsy. I cannot bring such disgrace to the man I love, even though I find the ways of the English foolish beyond belief.”

Her grandmother plucked a frond from a nearby fern and twisted it around her finger, deep in thought. “Then jump the broom with him, my granddaughter, and take your joy, however fleeting. The code of the gypsies will not bind him to you; only you will be bound to him. Would not a drop of honey to sweeten the bitter brew of life be better than no honey at all?”

Try as he may, Devon had a hard time convincing himself this was his wedding night. The Earls of Langley had traditionally been married in St. George’s church in Hanover Square with nothing less than an archbishop presiding and members of the royal family as guests. He had never thought to find himself sitting beside a campfire waiting to jump over a broom with the woman he loved. Nor had he thought to have an Irish smuggler, a London street urchin and a gaggle of raucous gypsies as his wedding guests.

He would either have to be a candidate for the madhouse or madly in love to even contemplate such a thing—and he chose to believe his to be more a madness of the heart than the mind.

Still, there had been a few moments that afternoon when he had wondered if the differences between himself and his soon to be in-laws were not too great to reconcile. Juan had offered to show him the stream the gypsies used for bathing so he could wash off the dust of the road and change into the clean clothes he had packed in his saddlebag.

Devon had followed him gratefully. But no sooner had he disrobed and immersed himself in the water than he’d heard giggling and looked up to find a dozen or so dark-eyes young girls peeping at him from the bushes lining the bank.

“Devil take, what are they doing here?” he demanded of Juan.

“Pay them no mind. They are simply curious to see if the body of a giant
gaujo
is the same as that of a
gitano
,” Juan had remarked and continued chewing on his blade of grass as if watching a strange man bathe were the most natural of occupations for young females.

“But they’re children—girl children. They couldn’t be more than ten or eleven years old,” Devon had protested, promptly sinking as deep into the water as he could. “They shouldn’t be viewing the naked body of a man. Have you no sense of decency?”

Juan had looked surprised. But he’d immediately ordered the girls to return to the camp, explaining “the
gaujo
is very shy,” when they protested.

He rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin on his hand, his gaze perusing Devon’s nakedness with the frank assessment of an art connoisseur viewing one of the Elgin marbles. “What is there about a man’s body that you find indecent, Golden One? Particularly one as magnificent as yours?”

Plucking another blade of grass, he chewed thoughtfully. “In another year or two, the
niñas
will be old enough to jump the broom with young
gitanos
. A gypsy girl is expected to be a virgin on her wedding night; surely she should not be expected to be ignorant of the body of a man as well. How could anything but disaster come of such a mating?” He shook his head. “What strange ideas you
gaujos
have. I wonder what Moira finds in you to admire.” His black eyes sparked with sudden laughter. “Still, I cannot say I am sorry I forbid my young wife to satisfy her curiosity about the golden
gaujo
.”

“Gypsy girls marry at twelve?” Devon asked, striving to keep the shock from his voice. He stepped from the water, shook himself dry, and stepped into his clean trousers.

“Of course. Why else would the Great Spirit of All Nature bring the flux that says they are ready to be mothers?”

Devon stared at the gypsy in horror. “But not Moira surely.”

“No, not that one. Five
gitanos
asked to jump the broom with her on the day she gained twelve years; she refused them all. Never before has such a thing happened in our camp. Though the abuela loved her dearly, she said she must choose or she must leave. Gypsy blood flows hot and one as beautiful as she was too much temptation as long as she was without a mate.”

Juan shrugged, tossed his blade of grass away, and rose to his feet to stand beside Devon. “But as always, the mestiza was as stubborn as the dry leaves that cling to the beech tree long after all the other leaves have fallen. She chose to turn her back on those she loved and walk the many miles to the village of Penryn where her
gaujo
father lived.”

Even now, many hours after he’d heard the story, Devon was still struck with awe when he considered the courage and determination it must have taken for a twelve-year-old girl to leave all that was familiar and strike out on her own. He felt humbled that the woman the girl had become should choose him as her mate.

He stared across the campfire to where the women and children had gathered to eat their evening meal. Tonight the flower in Moira’s hair was white and her dress a deep, midnight blue that was reflected in the fathomless depths of her beautiful eyes. In the flickering light of the fire, he could see the sensuous curve of her lovely mouth as she smiled at something her grandmother said.

“Your woman brings you your supper, Golden One,” Juan said, as with a graceful sway of her hips, Moira walked toward Devon with a plate of food.

“For you, my lord,” she said, kneeling before him, laughter dancing in her exotic eyes. “My grandmother has made a special treat in honor of the occasion. Braised hedgehog.” She leaned closer. “Do not look so horrified, my lord; it cannot possibly be as vile as the most traditional of English dishes, beef and kidney pie.”

“She’s right, my lad,” Blackjack said, plopping down beside Juan. “It is really quite tasty once one gets up the nerve to try it, as are most things the old sorceress cooks in that ancient black pot of hers.”

Aware that all eyes were upon him, Devon took a deep breath, picked up the wooden spoon laid across his plate, and dug in. To his surprise, it was delicious.

An hour later, with the simple meal over, he watched Moira’s grandmother wipe out the cooking pot with a crust of bread, which she tossed to the yellow dog, then fill the pot with water. He stared around the circle of noisy gypsies surrounding the campfire. Everyone seemed to be talking at once and suddenly he found himself heartily sick of the noise and the smoke and the waiting for the interminable evening to end so he could escape with Moira to the secret grotto deep in the woods where he had spread
abuela’s
wedding quilt that was to be their nuptial bed. Now that the time was so close when he would finally claim her as his wife, the anticipation had become almost unbearable.

To his surprise, two of the young women carried the pot of water across the clearing and set it at his feet. Around the circle, men whistled and women clapped—some even lifted their skirts to brush tears from their eyes. “You must kiss the side of the pot to show your appreciation,” Juan whispered. “The
abuela
does you much honor. Yours will be the first horse to drink tonight.

“From the cooking pot?” Devon choked.

Juan shrugged. “A foolish question,
gaujo
. What other pot is there?”

“Tis practical the gypsies are, as you’ll soon find married to me daughter,” Blackjack said with a chuckle. “Why carry two pots in one’s wagon if one will do?” His eyes lighted up. “Ah,
Deditas de Oro
joins us at last—and with his guitar. You’ll hear something tonight, my lad, the likes of which you’ll not hear again this side of heaven.”

He indicated the spot in the circle which heretofore had remained empty. It was now occupied by a tall man, thin to the point of emaciation, with hair as white as the first snow of winter and a pair of fierce black eyes that studied Devon with an intensity that left him feeling they must discern the very essence of his soul.

The old man’s black velvet trousers flared at the ankle and the ornate gold embroidery edging his waist-length velvet jacket matched the heavy gold loops dangling from his ears. Across his knees lay a battered guitar that looked to have as many years to its credit as its owner.

Juan leaned across Blackjack and whispered, “The time has come at last for you to jump the broom with your woman, gaujo. Then, after
Deditas de Oro
has played his guitar while your woman dances for you, you must prove your right to possess her by kidnapping her from her relatives.”

“Kidnap her! Why would I kidnap her when she has already agreed to become my wife?”

“It is the custom,
gaujo
.” Juan sighed. “Never have I known a man who asks so many questions. The women will wail and the men will chase you and make many threats. But never fear, it is all in fun; no bridegroom has ever been caught.” He grinned. “But it does lend excitement to the coupling.”

“Indeed it does,” Blackjack agreed. He wiped a tear from his eye. “I remember my own wedding night as if it were yesterday.”

Devon felt certain he would never forget his gypsy wedding either. The Christian one, for which he had carried a special license in his saddlebag since returning from London would seem tame compared to this.

He watched as Moira’s grandmother brought forth a broom made of fresh bound rushes, laid it on the ground beside the fire, and said a few words over it, then beckoned Moira and Devon to join her. Moira’s heart was in her eyes when she walked toward him, and Devon felt his own swell with pride as, to the accompaniment of much clapping and yelling, they jumped the broom hand in hand.

Then, clasping his hand in hers, Moira led him to her grandfather, the King of the Gypsies, to receive his silent blessing. After which, they sat at his feet and listened while his magic fingers spoke to them in a melody so haunting, Devon began to understand why there were those who claimed to have heard the voice of God speaking in his music.

So subtly, that at first Devon scarcely noticed it, the music changed in both tone and tempo. Like summer lightning flashing across a cloudless sky,
Deditas de Oro’s
fingers quickened on the strings of the guitar, sending lambent tongues of flame racing through the cool sweetness of the lyrical refrain.

Beside him, Moira rose to her feet, her fingers clicking a pair of castanets in accompaniment to the accelerating rhythm. With the fluid, swirling movement of the wind whispering across a field of ripening grain, she danced to the center of the circle.