Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (26 page)

"Gypsy lads!" Emerald came alive. "They pass through Leslie every year, and oh, they play the most lovely music." She cocked her head. "Can you hear a lute?"

"Easy, boy." Jason reined in. "I can hear nothing except—damn, here they come again."

From the other direction, they thundered past.

"Follow them," she urged. "They must be encamped nearby."

Sure enough, over the next hill came the delicate notes of the lute she'd heard. The lively tune grew more distinct as they turned off the road and followed the trail of clumps kicked up by the racing horses.

The Gypsy boys halted and slid from their mounts beside a makeshift community of people milling among tents, carts, and pack animals. Smoke rose into the air above the encampment. The lads bent over in laughter, pointing at Jason and Emerald.

An old woman motioned them closer, flashing a gap-toothed grin.

Emerald turned and tilted her head back, one hand on her hat to secure it. "Have we time to stop? Just for a minute?"

He'd never seen her so excited—he couldn't deny her dancing turquoise eyes. "Ten minutes."

Emerald was already waving to the short, round-faced woman. "Hallo!" she called as they pulled close.

"Hallo, me lady," the Gypsy woman returned. She wore a long, many-layered skirt in a myriad of bright colors and a head scarf of another color altogether. Thick gold loops hung from her ears. "Will you buy?"

"I could have told you that's what she wanted," Jason muttered.

"Wheesht!" Emerald admonished. She slid from Chiron. "I haven't any money."

The woman patted Chiron's flank. "A beauty." She pulled an apple from her pocket and held it out for the horse to munch. "How much?"

Jason dismounted and held the reins possessively. "He's not for sale."

"Pity." She sighed. "Trade?" With an expansive gesture, she offered several horses grazing nearby. "Two for one?"

Jason laughed. "No trade, either."

"Pity." Giving a dismissive wave, the woman turned and walked into the tent village.

Emerald shrugged. "Come, let's find the music. They don't usually mind visitors."

He lifted Chiron's reins. "Is it safe to leave him here?"

"They won't be stealing him, if that's what you mean."

It felt deucedly strange to be asking Emerald for advice, but the truth was, he felt completely out of his element. As a young man in exile he'd lived all over the Continent, but he'd never felt as much at odds with his environment as he did in this little pocket of foreignness here in his native land.

He tethered the horse, then followed her into the encampment. They wove between tents made from fresh-cut hazel pushed into the ground and bent over, which formed a resilient frame the Gypsies covered with colorful blankets. Delicious smells came from a huge iron kettle suspended over a stick fire. Women sat on stools around it, weaving lace and chattering in the Romani language, guarded by soft-eyed lurcher dogs.

As they walked by, a woman rose to stir the soup. When she set down the wooden spoon, a dog came up to lick it. "Bah!" she said, throwing the spoon into the fire.

At Jason's sound of surprise, Emerald turned to face him, walking backward. "It's
mockadi
," she explained. His face must have registered his confusion, because her laugh rang out over the lute's music. "Dogs and cats are unclean," she clarified. "You really are a
gaujo
, aye?" She laughed again. "A house-dweller."

"The woman fed Chiron by hand," he said. "Horses are not mock"—he frowned as he searched unsuccessfully for the word—"unclean?"

"Nay. Horses are revered. And they're not
mockadi
because—" She stopped walking backward, and when he almost ran into her, she put a hand to his chest and raised on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "They cannot lick their own backsides."

He laughed so loudly they attracted several stares. A tall, gaunt man with a wide mustache ducked out of a tent. He wore ordinary breeches and a shirt topped by a colorful vest. His black eyes fastened on the sword hanging at Jason's side. "Sharpen it, milord?"

"No, thank—" Jason started.

"Oh, for certain it should be razor sharp,
my lord
." The sparkle in Emerald's eyes revealed her amusement at the thought of him bearing such a title.

If only she knew.

"You must let him do it." Reaching for the hilt, she pulled the rapier from his belt. "Since you'll be wanting to"—she cleared her throat conspicuously—"take care of Gothard with it."

It was plain she still thought he was out to kill, but Jason didn't argue. He let her hand the sword to the fellow, though he had no intention of killing anyone with that blade ever again. One innocent man was more than enough life lost at his hands.

The man sat at a portable whetstone and began grinding. Over the sound of the wheel, the delicate notes of the lute were joined by other instruments: a guitar, a violin, drums, maybe something else. The music rose, becoming even livelier. After Jason retrieved his sword and handed the man a coin, Emerald took off in search of the musicians, leaving him to follow.

In a small clearing, dancers swirled, a wild mass of colors. Emerald turned to him, an avid look on her face. "Shall we dance?" She took both his hands, held them up between them, and pulled him toward the clearing.

He took several tentative steps, then stopped. "This isn't the minuet, nor even a country dance."

She giggled up at him. "Nay, it's not. Can you feel the music?" Indeed, it seemed to vibrate from the grass beneath their feet. "Cameron and I dance with them every year. Doesn't the music make you want to move like they do?"

They
were whirling in circles, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, snapping their fingers. "No, it doesn't," he said honestly.

"Come, try it!" She tugged his hands harder, until he stumbled into the midst of the dancers. But his feet refused to move like theirs, no matter how hard he tried. After a few halting steps, he pulled his hands from hers and backed away with a small bow and a sheepish smile of apology.

And he watched. Watched her swirling and dipping, swaying to the music that quite clearly spoke to her soul. Others watched as well, their own feet slowing as they watched hers fly.

Her hat flew off, and he ducked into the fray to retrieve it, then hurried back out. Her plaits whipped around, shimmering in the summer sunshine. The daisy chain about her neck whirled in her breeze, swooping up and down and around with her.

Murmured conversations sprang up all around him. Though he didn't know a word of Romani, he did know admiration when he heard it. Emerald was a—
gaujo
, had she called the house-dwellers?—becoming one with their Gypsy music.

He shifted on his feet, his eyes riveted to her lithe body, a blur against the backdrop of colorful clothing, tents, and trees. She'd come alive, an effervescence he'd been unaware of spilling out…and lodging somewhere in his heart.

Here was a small piece of England where she was more comfortable than he. What a difference it made. And, in contrast, how difficult it apparently was for her to operate in
his
world.

When the music ended and she stopped, the Gypsies burst into wild applause. Her cheeks reddened, she made her way over to him, stumbling and laughing at her dizziness. Another tune took up where the last one had left off, and she swayed to the beat.

"It's like a fair, isn't it?" she said breathlessly. "Except we're the only ones in attendance." She twirled in an exuberant circle, her arms wide, the daisy chain flying again. When she stopped, her eyes sparkled to rival the sunshine. "Imagine living like this every day."

He moved closer to resettle the ring of flowers around her neck. "It would be exhausting."

A frown flitted across her features. "There you go again, seeing the world in black and white."

"Right here I see it as most colorful." He tugged on one of her plaits, then set the hat back on her head. "And quite lovely."

She blushed prettily. Why had he never noticed before how very pretty Emerald was? The milkmaid had bloomed before his eyes.

"I've never seen anyone dance quite like that," he said, struggling for the words to describe it. To describe
her
. "So…free."

"The dancing brings the freedom, aye? While I'm dancing, I don't care."

"About what?"

"About anything."

Their eyes locked, and a moment of silence stretched between them. The Gypsy music pumped in the background. Slowly he nodded, and she smiled, then sighed. "I suppose we must get back on the road. It's been more than ten minutes."

"Wait, me lady." The old woman came out of nowhere and plucked Emerald on the sleeve. "You buy first."

"I told you I have no money," Emerald said firmly.

Jason laid a hand on her arm. "I have money."

The woman's lips curved up in her gap-toothed grin. She led them to an area between the tents, where carts were piled with goods. "Basket, me lady?"

"We cannot carry that," Emerald told her. "We're on horseback the next few days."

The woman frowned. "Livin' like you are, you got no need for a broom or a rake, then."

Emerald smiled. "Nay."

"Cooking utensils?" the woman asked hopefully. "Nails? Tools?"

Now Emerald laughed. "No nails or tools, either."

A foot tapped the grass beneath the woman's colorful skirt. "Me lady like silver?" Her gaze fastened on Emerald's amulet. "Or gold?"

Emerald grasped the green pendant. "Nay."

Not for a moment did Jason believe her. "Show me what you have," he told the Gypsy.

The woman ducked into a tent and came out with a handful of black velvet. She pulled up a stool and sat, opening the fabric in her lap to reveal a heap of gold trinkets.

Leaning over, Jason stirred the pile with a fingertip. The jewelry gleamed in the sunshine. Every piece was embossed or engraved with elaborate designs, and some of them were set with gemstones besides. "They are lovely, madam."

"You buy one?"

He selected a flat engraved band embedded with tiny, bright green emeralds. Turning to Emerald, he took one of her hands and slipped it onto the fourth finger. It fit perfectly.

Her pretty mouth hung slack for a moment. Her eyes turned a cloudy blue, and a frown appeared between them. "I cannot take this."

"Of course you can. Keep it as a memory of this day."

"I'll remember without it."

"Then as a token of thanks. From me. I enjoyed watching you dance."

Her cheeks flamed red. She twisted the band around her finger. Another Gypsy tune was playing in the background, but she didn't move to the music. "I…I cannot take it," she said again.

"Go away, then," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Pardon?"

"Over there." He pointed to the next tent.

Looking bewildered, she solemnly backed away until he nodded.

"How much?" he whispered to the Gypsy woman. When she told him, he dug out his pouch and paid her, then beckoned Emerald back over.

"You're supposed to dicker," she informed him. She tugged off the ring and took one of his hands in hers, turning it palm up as she leaned close to whisper in his ear. "She thinks you're an easy mark," she added, depositing the ring in his hand and folding his fingers firmly around it. "Did you notice she didn't even show you anything made of silver?"

He shrugged and put the ring in his pouch. He would give it back to her later.

"Come, me lady." The Gypsy woman stood. "I tell your future."

"I think not," Emerald said—but somewhat wistfully, Jason thought.

The woman held up one of his coins, her gap-toothed smile appearing again. "No charge."

"Go ahead," Jason urged.

"Have we the time? The Gothards—"

"The Gothards ought to be rolling out of bed right about now," he said dryly.

He could tell Emerald was intrigued. As he was himself—he'd never seen a fortune-telling. It ought to be entertaining. And if the brothers were already on the road, it wouldn't be such a bad thing should they get ahead.

He felt more comfortable as the pursuer than he did as the pursued.

"Are you sure?" Emerald asked, and when he nodded, she added, "Come with me, then."

He grinned. "You couldn't keep me away if you tried."

The Gypsy woman motioned for them to follow her to the edge of the encampment, near where Chiron was grazing lazily. "Milord does not believe in dukkerin'?"

"My lord," Emerald said, nearly stumbling over the two words if his ears didn't deceive him, "is a confirmed skeptic."

He swept off his hat and ducked his head to enter the woman's tent. Inside he couldn't stand straight, but the Gypsy motioned him into a beautifully carved gilt chair. Two lamps set on a low table threw glimmering light into the small space, which, in contrast to the clutter outside, appeared immaculate.

Waterproofed canvas lined the ground, and a fringed cloth, patterned with costly metallic thread, covered the table. His hat in his lap, he leaned back and stretched his legs, content to watch the show.

The woman settled Emerald on a low stool, then sat herself on the other side of the table. Emerald swept off her hat and set it on the floor.

The Gypsy reached across, took Emerald's hands, and just held them for a minute, smiling into her eyes. Then she leaned close, her gaze darting from one palm to the other. "Ah…a long life you will see." Her voice sounded different than it had outside—low and soothing.

Emerald smiled, slightly swaying to the music that drifted in from the clearing.

"And children.
Many
children."

Emerald stilled and shook her head. "You cannot tell that from my hands."

"The hands tell all." The woman's tone brooked no argument. She measured Emerald's white fingers against her own brown ones. "Middling," she declared. "Life is balanced." Then, "You." She swung on Jason, pointing a craggy finger with a curved, lacquered nail. "Your fingers long. Very responsible. Too responsible. You plan too much."

"Hmm." Emerald looked toward him speculatively.

He fisted his fingers to hide them, crossing his arms. He hadn't come in here to be analyzed. He'd come in here to be entertained.