Читать книгу Taken by the Wicked Rake - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 10

It took longer than expected for Stephano to return to camp that night. He was not used to the new location, after the recent move. His family had chosen wisely, for the spot was so subtle and well disguised that he had needed to stop and observe the patrin that had been left to mark the way. A broken twig here, a torn leaf there, a bundle of flowers tied to a branch. All served as indicators that he must go left or right through the trees to find the camp again, on ways so small it was almost as great a challenge to ride his horse as it had been to steer the gig when he had taken Verity Carlow.

It told him something of her cleverness, that his captive had turned his momentary confusion on the previous night into an escape attempt. If she was as sharp today, he would be hard-pressed to keep track of her. The trip to London and back had left him dull witted. His head hurt, and the cut on his hand pained him more than it should.

They must be growing near, for his big black stallion, Zor, pricked up his ears, and fought to set his own pace. It was not worth struggling for control, so he gave the beast its head, and in no time, the journey was done.

As he fed and groomed his horse, from every corner of the camp he heard cries of ‘Stephano! Sastimos, Stephano!’ And felt an answering surge of joy at the warmth of their greetings. Children crowded around him, begging for the bag of sweets they knew he would bring. The sun was dropping towards the horizon, and he could smell the evening meals cooking on the fires inside the circle of tents. The women shouted warnings to their offspring about ruined suppers and gave him half-hearted scolds about sweets before a meal. But they smiled as they did it, and he knew that there would be a plate of food waiting for him at any campfire he chose.

For a moment, the warmth and friendship overcame the headache which was rising again as he prepared for the angry confrontation that awaited him on the other side of his vardo door. By now, Verity Carlow would be hungry, as well as cold. And since it was unlikely that she had missed a meal in twenty-one years, she would be overcome by the hardship. Her temper would be somewhere between merely foul and completely hysterical. And he would be forced to bear the brunt of it, without response. He had promised Keddinton that he would not hurt her, nor did he wish to.

But life would be much easier if he gave over the last of his scruples and settled violence with violence. To follow the way of his mother’s curse, guided by fate and the pain in his head, made life far too complicated. If he wished revenge against any of the Carlow men, it would have been so much easier to catch them unawares and knife them in the ribs. Or meet them on the field of honour, as his father would have wanted. He was proficient with a variety of weapons, and sure of success because right was on his side.

And as for the girl?

Her golden brown hair was the colour of wild honey, and she had skin like fresh milk. It made him hungry, in so many ways, to think of her. And the look in her huge eyes when they’d danced had been a mixture of innocence and curiosity, just as the colour of them had blended green and brown. Although she had been by far the most cautious member of her family, he had seen the way she’d looked at him, last night in the vardo. She would put up a token resistance to his advances, before offering her maidenhead. And when he’d had his fill of milk and honey, he could have laughed at her disgrace and sent her home to break her father’s heart.

As his own father had done to his mother. The thought set his head to hammering again. He suspected that the spirit of his mother would have more sympathy for the girl than she would for her own son, and would make him suffer greatly should he abuse her.

If only to save himself a headache, he would treat Verity Carlow with respect, if not with kindness. She could have her ragged dress back and a bowl of stew for supper. And she would sleep alone in his bed, which was the softest in the camp. He would turn a deaf ear to her complaints. In a week or less, her father would be begging to get her back, and Stephano would be glad to be rid of her.

He glanced over at his grandmother’s tent, and at the trim Romany girl that sat on the bench beside it. Soon he would settle the Beshaley curse. And if he survived the experience, he would spend his evenings by the fire in camp, flirting with a pretty girl like that. He would have a happy wife, and a vardo full of children.

And then, the last rays of sun touched the honey-blond hair of the girl by the fire. His anger at his own mistake made his head ring with pain as sharp and clear as ever he’d felt. He handed the last of the candy from his pocket to the nearest child, and stalked across the camp to confront his escaped prisoner. ‘What are you doing, out of the wagon?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Lady Verity Carlow gave him a frigid smile. ‘Did you mean for me to remain there? You did not say.’

‘I thought the message was clear enough.’

‘I assumed that you had come to your senses, and sent the old lady to feed and clothe me, as an apology.’ She lifted her chin and gathered her dignity. With a little toss of her head, she made the borrowed dress look like the height of London fashion. ‘Unless she came to me without your permission. Perhaps your followers are not as obedient as you think.’

Which was true enough, if they were talking of his grandmother. ‘Magda!’ He bellowed her name, and the old crone came out of her tent—slowly, to show him that his desire for her immediate presence was not likely to hurry her steps.

She glanced up at him in mock surprise and said in Romany. ‘You have returned, grandson?’

He answered her in the same language, knowing she would only pretend ignorance if he talked English for the benefit of his prisoner. ‘Old woman, who let the girl out of my vardo?’

‘I did, of course. She was squalling like a baby goat.’ She turned to the girl and made a rude, bleating noise that made Verity jump back in alarm. ‘I looked in through the window and saw that you had left her bare. And with not a thing to eat. You had given no word when you might return. Did you mean to starve her?’

‘I was not gone a day, as you can see. Missing a meal would do her no harm.’

Magda shrugged. ‘How was I to know? So I gave her some clothes so that she would not shame herself, and brought her out to feed her. What do you mean, bringing this gadji into the camp to sleep in my wagon?’

‘I built the wagon for you. I use it because you refuse to sleep there.’

Magda made a face. ‘The soft bed hurts my back. And a true Rom does not need such luxury. To sleep on the ground as Devla intended—’

‘Why is it that you only wish to sleep on Devla’s earth, when I offer to make you comfortable by giving you a bed?’

‘I do not want your bed, if you mean to pollute it with a gadji.’

‘She is here as a hostage, to gain control of her father. And where she sleeps is none of your business, old woman.’ Magda was glaring at him, again, and he flashed the ward against the evil eye because he knew it would annoy her.

‘Evil?’ She laughed. ‘It is high time you worried about such things. Bringing an English girl here is bringing the curse back to our home.’

‘I never meant for her to leave the vardo.’

‘Even worse.’ Magda moaned. ‘Is she a gadji whore, that you must keep her naked in your bed? Your mother would roll in her grave, to see that you have learned nothing from her mistakes.’

‘Do not mention my mother, chivani.’

‘I will do as I like.’ She looked at the girl and cried, ‘Whore!’ But since she was still speaking Romany, the girl merely looked puzzled by the outburst.

‘She is not a whore, and I do not mean to bed her. I took her clothing to make it impossible for her to run. In a few days she will be gone.’

‘A few days, a few minutes, a few years. It does not matter.’ Magda moaned. ‘What decent Rom will give his daughter to you, if this is the way you behave?’

‘I do not seek a bride, Rom or otherwise.’

‘Just a whore. Perhaps her family will not mind what she has been to you. But you, at least, should have enough pride not to flaunt your lewd behaviour in front of your grandmother.’