Claiming the Forbidden Bride (16 page)

There was an undercurrent of Nadya's story Rhys wasn't sure he understood. She loved her brother. Did she also resent the elevated position he'd achieved within the tribe?

‘Fortune-telling and the love potions?' he suggested. It was difficult, somehow, to imagine that the man he'd met that day was superstitious.

‘The importance of family. The need for vengeance against those who wrong you. Her fatalism. Stephano lapped it all up. Maybe it helped to explain why his life, once so promising, had turned out as it has.'

‘Did she encourage him to seek vengeance on those responsible for that?'

‘Wouldn't you want revenge if your father had been murdered?'

‘Is that what happened?'

She nodded. ‘A man, a friend of his father's, was hanged for the crime, but Stephano doesn't believe that's justice enough.'

‘What more does he want?'

Nadya shook her head. ‘You'll have to ask Stephano.'

‘Is that why he spends so much time in London? Pursuing justice for his father?'

‘He has a business there.'

‘What kind of business?'

She shook her head again. ‘I've told you what you asked. I don't know if Stephano has enemies. I only know that he sees himself as the enemy of those he holds to be responsible for his father's death.'

‘If Stephano has been shot, as Andrash said, then obviously there have been confrontations between those people and your brother. Maybe they now share his thirst for revenge. What better way to achieve that than to harm his family?'

He could tell she was thinking about it. In the end, it seemed she was unwilling to admit that what had happened that night could have been her brother's fault.

‘Then why wouldn't they target Magda? They're much closer than Stephano and I have ever been.'

‘Maybe they did. You've admitted there's sometimes confusion over the title. But it seems to me…' He hesitated, knowing how difficult it would be for her to accept what he was about to suggest. ‘What about Angel?'

‘Angel?' she repeated, her eyes again finding her daughter.

‘There appeared to be a great deal of affection between
her and Stephano. The men who came that night had been paid to burn your home, Nadya. Angel would have been the least likely to have escaped if they'd been more efficient in carrying out their assignment.'

‘Angel wasn't in my home that night, Rhys. You were. Who's to say you weren't their target?'

‘I left my enemies in Spain. And believe me, none of them knew I was in your camp that night.'

‘Then I think it will be difficult for you to find a solution to the mystery you profess to see in those events. I think that you'd better go.'

He had pushed her as far as he could. At least she would be on her guard. As were Andrash and her grandmother. As for her brother and his enemies…

‘Of course.' He stood as if he intended to carry out her request. ‘By the way, what's the name of Stephano's business? Perhaps I can throw some custom his way.'

‘He never mentioned it.'

‘And his father's name?'

‘I don't believe he told me that either. Or if he did, I've forgotten it. After all, that part of his life is a world away from this.'

‘Perhaps not so far as you wish,' he warned.

‘I'm afraid you really must excuse me,' she said coldly. ‘I have work to do.'

‘Forgive me for keeping you from it.'

It was as if they were strangers. And in every way that mattered, he realized, they were.

‘May I say goodbye to Angel?'

He turned to look into the other room. This time the child seemed oblivious to them, intent on her play.

‘It might be easier if she doesn't know you're leaving,' Nadya said, her eyes on her daughter.

As the little girl's mother, she had every right to refuse. Still, he was forced to swallow against an unexpected thickness in his throat at the thought he might never see Angel again.

Or Nadya.

She'd made her choice, it seemed, and like her decision regarding her daughter, he couldn't argue against it. Reggie's reaction had reiterated the barriers that he'd already been aware of. Last night, Magda had done the same for Nadya.

‘Take care. Of you and of her.'

She turned to meet his eyes. Hers were as cold as her voice had been. ‘We're among our own people, who will defend either of us to the death. Thank you, though, for your kind concern.'

She didn't offer him her hand as other women of his acquaintance might have done. Instead, her eyes held on his, their dark gaze calm and unafraid.

He nodded, since there was nothing else left to say.

As he began to turn toward the curtained opening, Nadya added softly, ‘
Ashen Devlesa
, Rhys Morgan. Go with God.'

D
espite Nadya's rejection of both his concern and his presence in their lives, Rhys had one more promise to keep before he returned to his brother's home. And he was determined that whatever role he would eventually assume under Edward's direction, he would no longer be treated as an invalid. He had proven to himself, if to no one else, that he was capable of more than anyone had been willing to assign to him.

As for Abigail…

The contrast between his sister-in-law's coddling and Nadya's treatment of him tread too close to things he couldn't afford to think about. Instead, he set the bay into a trot that lasted to the outskirts of the village where Oliver Burke's small stone croft stood.

Allowing his mount to slow as he approached the cottage, he studied its environs. Isolated from its neighbours on the side by the open green, the house was backed by a thickly wooded slope leading down to a narrow stream. Since the lane that led from the main road into the village ran within a few hundred yards of the house, he had
deliberately waited until twilight so that it would, in all likelihood, remain free of traffic.

Rhys pulled the gelding up behind a stand of oaks and dismounted. As he looped his reins around the limb of a sapling, his eyes continued to survey the scene before him.

A few sheep grazed on the common, but they were unsupervised. Beyond them, scattered lights were beginning to illuminate windows in the peaceful hamlet. Trails of white smoke rose from chimneys to fade against the grey sky.

Neither sign of occupation was apparent at Burke's cottage. Nor was he outside with his evening pipe, as he had been when Rhys had come calling two days ago.

Lips tilting slightly in memory, Rhys ran a hand down his horse's nose as he stepped around it to begin the short journey to the small stone house. The stillness seemed strangely absolute. So much so that the hair on the back of his neck began to lift.

Although he was unsure what his well-honed instincts were trying to tell him, he was experienced enough not to discount their warning. He slowed, taking care to avoid any deadfall in his path that might give away his presence.

When he reached the side of the croft, he leaned against the wall next to its shuttered window, listening for any sound that might indicate the owner was in residence. There was none.

He eased around the front corner, his back pressed against the cool stones, and stopped beside the door. Again, he heard nothing from inside.

Perhaps Burke had not yet returned from his trip to the Bull and Bear. Or perhaps, as Rhys had earlier speculated he might, the man had simply packed up his belongings and taken them to another, less threatening part of the country.

Or maybe he's spent the last two days sitting in the dark, a bludgeon in hand, waiting for my return.

Despite that possibility, Rhys hesitated only briefly before he reached out to lift the latch. He was surprised to find the door unbarred. He took a deep breath, every nerve alert, before he pushed it open.

There was enough daylight left to reveal that the one-room cottage was empty. Since he'd been primed for a very different revelation, Rhys again hesitated, waiting for some reaction to the opened door.

When there was none, he advanced another step, stopping this time within its frame. His eyes searched the darkened corners he'd been unable to see from outside and then made a more thorough examination of the rest.

The bedclothes were tumbled, and the fire in the grate had been allowed to die. The remains of a meal, which included a broken loaf of bread on a wooden board and two plates with some indistinguishable contents, stood on a table near the hearth.

It appeared that Burke had been expecting a guest. Or that his entertainment of one had been interrupted. If so…

Warily, Rhys stepped inside. The room smelled of mould and dirt and something else he couldn't quite place. He lifted his nose, drawing in some of the stale air in an attempt to identify that elusively familiar scent.

Unsuccessful, he took another step forward, making sure no one hid in the remaining corner the door had, until now, blocked from view. The prickling of unease he'd felt outside had not, then, presaged an ambush.

Oliver Burke was not, in fact, waiting to bludgeon him. He wasn't here at all.

Rhys walked across to the fireplace. He stooped to hold
his palm out to the grate and then, feeling no heat, touched the ash with his fingers.

Cold as stone. Like the rest of the cottage.

As he straightened, his eyes fell again on the table setting. The fat in the juices that had pooled around the stew was white and congealed, but more than half of what had been dipped into the plates from the pot that hung over the fire remained uneaten.

He turned, considering the rest. Other than the table and two chairs, the only other furnishings were a small chest, like a seaman's locker, and the tumbled bed.

He crossed the room and bending, threw back the lid of the former to reveal a jumble of clothing. The slouch hat Burke had worn the night of the raid hung on a peg beside the bed.

If the man he sought had left, it seemed he'd taken few of his belongings with him. Rhys released his frustration in a long, pent-up breath.

As he turned away, he realized that whatever he'd smelled before was stronger on this side of the room. And in that same instant, he knew exactly what the familiar scent he'd been unable to identify was.

Two steps carried him to the bed with its disordered linens. Steeling himself, he grasped the top edge of the greyed and fraying coverlet, haphazardly thrown across the bare mattress, and pulled it down.

The body of Oliver Burke lay on its back, glassy eyes staring upward. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. Judging by the amount of blood that had soaked onto the bedding, he'd been murdered in this position.

The lack of disarray in the room argued against a struggle. Taken in conjunction with the table set for two,
Burke had probably been the victim of an attack by someone he'd considered a friend.

The man who'd sent him to the Rom encampment that night? Or, more likely, some other mercenary bastard Burke's ‘gentleman' had paid to put an end to what had become an unfortunate association?

It hardly mattered. The man was dead, and with him had died any opportunity to find out who'd targeted Nadya.

Infuriated by the outcome of a plan whose odds had been from the start very long, Rhys drew the coverlet over the dead man's face. His only option now was to visit the tavern Burke had mentioned. It was possible that in asking questions he might attract the attention of Burke's ‘gentleman' employer to himself.

His mind occupied with figuring out his next move, Rhys started back toward the open door. Something—perhaps that same primordial intuition that had troubled him before he'd entered the cottage—alerted him now.

His gaze lifted to find a shadow across the entryway. One that hadn't been there before and didn't belong now.

In the split second it took him to recognize the anomaly, hard-earned skills came into play. He threw himself to one side as a shot rang out, echoing too loudly in the close confines of the stone house.

The ball struck the wall behind him, sending splinters of rock throughout the room. Before that noise had faded, it was followed by another.

Rhys had taken shelter behind the only object that had offered any. Now he pushed the chair aside to peer out between the legs of the table.

The smell of black powder lay thick in the air. As it began to clear, he was able to identify the last sound he'd heard.

A man was sprawled face downward across the thresh-
old. The pistol that fired the shot that had missed Rhys's head by inches lay in his slackened fingers. And the hilt of the knife buried deep in his back still quivered from the force with which it had been thrown.

Stunned by the sudden eruption of violence, Rhys waited for any indication his attacker might still pose a threat. Eyes straining against the fading light, he saw the shadow that had warned him earlier again fall across the threshold.

The man who cast it this time immediately appeared in the opening. His gaze swept the scene before it found and held on Rhys, still crouched behind the table.

His smile mocking, Nadya's half-brother bowed to him, the sweeping gesture almost theatrical. Then he stepped into the room, looking down contemptuously at his victim.

He put his booted foot against the man's back and bending, drew out his knife. He wiped its blade with two quick strokes, front and back, on the dead man's clothes.

‘He'd been waiting for you outside,' Stephano explained as he opened his coat to place the dagger back into a scabbard under his left arm.

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Rhys got to his feet. He had no idea why the Rom would have been watching Burke's cottage. All he was sure of was that Stephano had saved his life. And he couldn't think of a single reason why he would want to.

‘As were you?' Rhys suggested.

‘I have very good sources of information.' Stephano's smile had widened. ‘But I'm not prescient. I came to talk to Burke.'

‘So did I. I'm sorry to inform you we were both destined for failure.' He tilted his head toward the bed.

Stephano's brows lifted. He stepped over the body of the man he'd killed to walk across the room.

Unlike Rhys, he didn't hesitate before he pulled the coverings off the body. He stood a moment looking down at the dead man and then threw them over his face again.

When he turned, there was no trace of mockery in his dark eyes. ‘My only regret is that someone beat me to it.'

‘You knew—'

‘That he led the raid? I imagine you and I had the same sources for that information.'

‘I talked to Burke two days ago. He claimed someone paid him to instigate the villagers to attack.'

Stephano laughed. ‘You didn't expect him to admit that villainy was his own idea.'

‘They were looking for Nadya,' Rhys said. ‘They beat Andrash to try and force him to reveal where the
drabarni
lived.'

‘And then you gallantly rescued Andrash and my sister, and all was once more right with the world.' The mockery was back with a vengeance.

‘I overheard one of them use Burke's name and tracked him here,' Rhys continued doggedly. ‘Whoever paid him—'

‘Planned to ambush you?' As if copying Rhys's earlier gesture, the Rom tilted his head in the direction of the man he'd knifed. ‘If that
was
the case, they are now both dead.'

‘Burke told me he was a gentleman. As you can see—' Rhys looked pointedly at the man on the floor.

‘Ah, yes. Burke. That fount of veracity. That pillar of virtue.'

‘Why would he lie?'

‘Because he represents the dregs of your society. Violent, ignorant, greedy. But assuming any part of what he told you was true, then when he went back to his patron to tell him you were sniffing around, together they
arranged this ambush. The man took the opportunity to get rid of you and Burke at the same time. And now he is dead.' Stephano shrugged. ‘It's over.'

‘You can't be sure of that. Besides, the central question has yet to be answered. Why would anyone target Nadya?'

‘Why indeed,' Stephano said pleasantly. ‘It makes no sense.'

‘And you're willing to let this go? Nadya's your sister, for God's sake.'

‘While I admire your tenacity, might I remind you that what happened that night is none of your concern?'

Rhys felt his temper flare. He couldn't be sure if that was the sole result of the Gypsy's sarcasm or because her brother's words had echoed Nadya's rejection closely enough to represent an unwanted reminder of its finality.

‘And might I remind you that someone just tried to kill me. That seems reason enough to make it my concern.'

‘Then go home, soldier boy,' Stephano suggested. ‘You should be safe there.'

Wrapped tightly in cotton wool.

Although the last phrase had found voice only inside Rhys's head, Stephano's comment had again come too near his own thoughts not to be coloured by them. The anger that had begun in response to the Rom's mockery threatened his control.

‘I haven't been called
boy
in a very long time.' The softness of his words would have been warning enough to anyone who'd served under his command. ‘But then it's been a very long time since I've been one.'

The eyes of Nadya's brother considered him a moment before the Gypsy's well-shaped lips lifted in a smile. ‘I have offended you. My deepest apologies. How may I make amends?'

Although the tone of his comment had lacked the Rom's customary sarcasm, Rhys didn't feel inclined to forgive the slight. He hadn't liked the man in their previous encounters. Knowing Stephano's tragic story hadn't lessened that animosity.

Perhaps the fact he just saved your life should.

‘By not discounting my concerns for Nadya's safety.'

The Gypsy's smile faded. ‘I am always concerned for the safety of my family.'

‘I'm sure you know better than anyone why you should be.'

For a few seconds there was no response but the tilt of a brow. ‘Indeed? And how did you arrive at that conclusion?'

‘Your grandmother suggested you've made dangerous enemies in the course of your…endeavours. If they want to strike back at you, what better way than to injure those you hold dear?'

The contours of the Rom's handsome face hardened. ‘Why would you listen to the gossip of a superstitious old woman?'

‘Because she knows you better than anyone else. If Magda believes what you're doing is dangerous, who am I to doubt it?'

‘Magda should stick to her Tarot cards and her palm readings. Has she read yours?'

Rhys shook his head. ‘Should I ask her to?'

‘Only if you want to know what the future holds. Few of us do.' He looked down at the dead man at his feet. ‘Would he have come here tonight if he'd known what fate had in store?'