A Forbidden Love (22 page)

“From whom,” he corrected. “There is a man in London, Luther Gillingham. He runs a gambling hall and employs a number of high-end doxies to work in his club. Sabrina, one of those women wears the very same locket as you.”

He waited to hear her reaction. He was not prepared for her scalding tone. “And just what were you doing with the doxy?”

“Never mind that,” he almost growled, but then the agreeable thought hit him, and his tone dramatically altered. “Are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” she insisted indignantly, if in a somewhat shaky tone. “But don’t tell me you’ve gone about London, spending your time with doxies, all with the purpose of helping me.”

He grinned. She
was
jealous. And it delighted him to the very core of his being. He was fortunate the wagon was so dark inside that she couldn’t see his victorious smile, or she might have clobbered him with something just then.

“Sabrina, it doesn’t matter how I came across the knowledge. What matters is that you’re still in danger. The men chasing after you want the locket.”

And to emphasize his point, he reached between them to grasp the locket around her neck, only his hand grazed the full swell of her breast in the process, and she shivered at his touch, leaving his own body in painful pangs of want.

“This is what Gillingham wants,” he whispered and tugged on the locket. “And he is a dangerous man. He will do anything to get this locket. You have to stop wearing it. You have to go away for a time, so Gillingham will lose all trace of you.”

“I will,” she promised, and Anthony felt his body stiffen at the vulnerable sound of her voice. Cursed damnation,
he
wanted to be the one to protect her. And it was going to take great fortitude indeed for him to let her go a second time.

But he wouldn’t release her just yet. “Where did you get the locket?”

“I found it, five years ago, by the seashore. I’ve worn it ever since. I thought it would bring me good fortune.”

Her voice cracked. His grip tightened around her in soothing comfort. “It will be all right.” He kissed her lips tenderly. “No one will hurt you, I—”

He was about to promise he would always take care of her, but he realized that was not his place—it was her husband’s.

“Sabrina, you have to get away from here as soon as you can. Gillingham’s men are still searching for you, I’m sure of it.”

The grip on his hair loosened. “You should go before anyone sees you.”

He would go—soon. His mouth touched hers in a passionate kiss. “Have you forgiven me?” he breathed against her lips, desperate to know whether his previous words of contrition had had any effect on her at all.

But she didn’t get the chance to answer him. He should have gone when she had asked him to. But now it was too late.

The door to the wagon swung wide open.

Chapter 19

S
abrina stifled a horrified scream and swung her head over her shoulder. “Father!” she gasped in her native Romany, the tears already swimming in her eyes.

The man was livid. His fingers shook at a frightening pace. His whole body quaked with unmistakable rage and horror and disgrace.

She scrambled out of Anthony’s lap, the tears now streaking her hot cheeks. “Father, please, let me—”

She got no further. The man grabbed her roughly by the arm and jerked her clear out of the wagon. She ended up sprawled on the ground.

Anthony jumped out after her, yelling, “Get away from her!”

“Anthony, please!” she cried. “He’s my father. Don’t hurt him.”

That gave the viscount pause, but it only enraged her father more to hear her use the
gajo’s
given name, betraying further their already obvious level of intimacy.

Everything happened so quickly then. The commotion by her wagon attracted more curious gypsies to investigate, and soon a small crowd had gathered around her.

“This is all my fault,” said Anthony. “Please, let me explain.”

Vardar ordered for Anthony to be seized, and two men stepped forward to grab him by the arms. Anthony didn’t protest, for her sake. Her pleading eyes were begging with him not to hurt her kinsmen.

Nobody knew who Anthony was yet. His attire consisted of simple riding gear. Her father would never accost a peer of the realm, fearing any legal retribution, but in his current state of wrath, he wouldn’t hesitate to offend a mere country gent.

Sabrina intended to reveal Anthony’s true identity, to save the viscount from any real harm, but confessions on her part would have to hold off for a while.

She was suddenly being dragged by her father to the very center of the festivities, and was tossed back onto her knees before the great bonfire.

The music stopped. The alarmed gypsies staggered back in fear and dismay. Anthony was dragged out into the light alongside her, but he was kept at a slight distance, so all eyes were on Sabrina and her father for the moment.

Istvan made his way through the crowd, demanding to know what had happened.

“She is a disgrace,” came the ragged, tortured words from her father. And each word pierced her heart like a slashing sword. “She tells me she is tired and wishes to rest, and I find her in the arms of an outsider.”

The last word was uttered with such vehemence, it was hissed. And Sabrina felt it sear her ears. Tears drenched her soul. Her whole life was falling to pieces, fading into oblivion, and she could do nothing to stop the spiraled descent. There was nothing she could grab hold of to save herself.

Istvan looked between her and Anthony, disbelief in his eyes. “Is this true?”

Sobs wracked her lungs, strangling her words. She could scarcely breathe, her fear and humiliation were so great.

“How could you do this?” Istvan whispered, heartbroken, shame burning in his eyes that she had been found in the arms of another man.

“Nothing happened,” she vowed between sobs, trying to explain she had not lost herself completely to another man, but her words were of no help to her now.

“Nothing happened!” roared her father, and dropped to his knees, grabbing a fistful of her hair. She could see the alabaster white of his eyes fill with tiny red veins. Tears pooled to the corners of his eyes, his voice crackling with suppressed agony. “I find you, in the darkness of my wagon, in the embrace of another man, and you tell me nothing happened? You disgrace me, child.” His teeth were clenched, his tears now flowing freely. “You are not my daughter anymore.”

It was like ice, gradually splintering, a crack here, a fissure there, and then the whole sheet broke apart, devastated beyond recognition. She felt cold, shattering pain. “Father, please, I made a mistake. Forgive me.”

He gnashed his teeth to keep his composure from crumbling. “How can I forgive you? You have dishonored me.” And then quietly, so no one else could hear, “How could you do this to me, Sabrina?”

She could feel a wrenching ache in her chest. “I’m so sorry, Father,” she whispered, trembling all over.

The pain that flashed through his dark blue eyes was replaced with rage. Black, simmering rage.

Vardar rose to his feet and looked at Anthony with unveiled, consuming hate before he returned his gaze to his daughter. “You are banished from this tribe.”

A great murmur arose. Weeping was heard all around her. Sabrina couldn’t believe it. She shook her head fervently in denial. “No, you cannot mean that. I love you, Father. I don’t want to leave.”

His composure cracked ever so slightly at her words, but hardened again in the next instance. “You know the laws of our people. You have shamed me. You cannot make amends.”

“But where will I go?”

He took a brisk step toward her and wove his fingers through her hair, blasting: “You have chosen the bed of an outsider and now you will sleep in it!”

“But I haven’t chosen him!” she cried.

“Do not lie to me!”

“Please, listen. He helped me when I was in trouble—”

“And you have chosen to repay him with your body.”

“No!”

He let go of her hair. “Get out of my sight.”

“Father—”

“I am not your father!” Again he snatched her by the arm and dragged her back to their wagon. He started to stuff her clothes into a bag, mindlessly grabbing whatever was in his reach. “Now leave,” he ordered and threw the bag at her.

“Please, do not send me away,” she begged, panicking, the tears blearing her vision.

“Get out of my sight,” he whispered harshly and stalked away from her.

Sabrina flew after her father in a desperate attempt to change his mind, but he shrugged off her grip, and gave her a sound smack across the cheek.

Instant regret filled his eyes, then pain, then fury. “I said leave!” he bellowed.

Anthony struggled against his captors, enraged by the brutal sight, and received a solid punch in the gut for his trouble.

“Let him go,” bade Vardar, and Anthony was instantly released.

The strike had dazzled Sabrina’s senses. She touched her wet, stinging face in shock. Her father had never hit her before. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Her distressed eyes roamed over the hushed crowd, and she saw the astonished, weeping face of Gulseren, of a devastated Istvan, of her heartbroken father, and of all the horrified gypsies gaping at her.

She turned on her heels and fled, ran through the darkness, blinded by her tears. She staggered up the hillside, stumbled, then pushed on. She floundered again, but forced herself to continue. Coming down the hill, she dropped to her knees a third time, and remained where she was. She felt all the strength drain from her limbs.

The racket in her head was unbearable. Weeping voices meshed with sharp, jarring sounds of reproof. Sadness poured through her veins like cold, numbing water. She had lost everything. Her family, her home, her life in an instant. It was all gone—forever.

What an impenetrable word. Forever. She couldn’t grasp the meaning. It sounded like a very long time, but she couldn’t really go on for the rest of her days without ever hearing the voice of her father. She couldn’t really go about the world alone. One day she would be forgiven. One day the anger would pass. It had to. Her father loved her. She knew it. He was angry now, but he wouldn’t be always. She would come home again when a little time had passed, and ask for forgiveness. Her father wouldn’t be able to stay furious with her forever. He simply couldn’t. She would die alone in the harsh world. He wouldn’t let her die. Would he?

She was shaking so hard her teeth were striking in swift, loud successions. She felt cold. Lost. The grief was so great, she didn’t think she could stomach it.

What was she going to do? Where was she going to go? No other gypsy caravan in England would take her now. Word would spread of what she had done, of the shame she had brought upon her father, herself, her people. She would have to leave England and join with another caravan on the mainland. She would have to go to the ends of the earth to find a place where she would be welcomed. She just couldn’t be alone. The world was cold and cruel. She was hated by
gajos
just for being a gypsy. She would never be safe anywhere but with another caravan. Only fellow gypsies would protect her. Only her own kind would love her.

The arms that wrapped around her shoulders were strong and gentle, and such an aching contrast to the horror of what she had just been through, that her silent cries soon turned to loud, soul-wrenching wails.

She didn’t notice the tender embrace that scooped her up and carried her away. She didn’t notice the movement beneath her, as she found herself on a horse, trotting steadily through the dark, deserted valley. She didn’t notice the arms that kept a firm hold of her the entire time she wept, never letting go for even a moment.

It was only after the tears had stopped flowing, it was only after the sorrow had washed away and an empty void taken its place, that she thought to ask, “Where are we going?”

“To London,” said the soothing voice by her ear.

She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t care where she went. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Two nights later, Sabrina found herself slumped against the squabs of an enclosed carriage, traveling through the gloomy streets of London.

The journey to the city had been a quiet one. Her spirits dark, her thoughts bleak, she had very little to say to Anthony. He made no effort to coax her from her doleful mood. Instead, he remained by her side. A silent shadow watching over her. It was comforting, without being distracting.

But now in London, she had a flurry of new troubles to face. It was such a big, imposing city, full of twisting alleyways—and
gajos.
Lots of
gajos
who hated gypsies. How was she ever going to find her way in such a threatening place?

The dark silhouette of brooding buildings reached far into the misty skyline. Chimneys galore puffed their sooty ash and smoke, blanketing the city in a hazy fog. It was like a disturbing dream. And she was trapped in it. Never again would she awaken and find herself in the safe confines of her father’s wagon.

Her heart tightened at the mere thought of her father. Grief poured into her empty heart, and poured and poured, and would have poured on forever, it seemed, had she not put a cap on her sorrow and forced the tears into submission. Is this what her life was going to be like from now on? A drab existence of endless pain and regret and sorrow?