For the Love of a Gypsy (12 page)

Chapter 14

“I’m ready to marry.”

Rafe whipped around. “Pah, as if you had a choice.”

Martine shrugged as if her brother’s words didn’t emphasize how little control she had over her own life.

Her brother advanced and stood too close. The scar across his cheek whitened. She braced herself for his words, although she wished they would remain unspoken.

“I make the decisions,
Siskaar
.” He retreated a step, yet fury still reigned over his face and in his posture. “What makes you certain your Magor would welcome you now?”

Martine twisted her hands together. “He must. ’Twas arranged.”

Rafe sliced his hand through the air. “The clan is in a precarious position. I fear word of the Irishman may have reached Magor’s clan.”

She cast her gaze to the floor. She rubbed her brow, her head now aching at the worry and heartbreak. ‘Twas obvious Declan didn’t reveal what had happened the night before. He’d left as he said he would, and now she knew what was expected of her. Martine inhaled deeply before she spoke. “I know I must wed.”

Rafe tipped up her chin. “’Tis time for you to have a husband and a family of your own.”

She looked into his eyes, now filled with concern and compassion. Aye, she’d miss him dearly, her moody brother. Rafe and Anya were the only family she’d known. She so wanted to stay, remain with them forever.

Just as she thought of it, the idea of family and babes of her own sent her heart careening.

He let go of her and tugged at his chin. He placed his free hand on his waist as he tapped a booted foot. “Go, we must prepare. You must wed. You know it, and Anya knows.”

“Anya knows what?”

They both turned toward the doorway. Anya stood watching them, obviously disgruntled. She bustled forward and wrapped a protective arm around Martine. “’Tisn’t her fate. Didn’t I tell you,
bitti chovexani
?”

Martine nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. Rafe shook his head as he filled a cup with whiskey.

“
Púridaia
, you know as well as I, ‘tis done. The bride price has been paid and Magor awaits our lovely Martine.”

“Pash,” Anya said as she strode to his side. She helped herself to some spirits and glared at her grandson.

“Our clan will lose the respect we have earned over the generations.”

“Nay,” Anya said with a growl as she set her cup down with a thud. The whiskey splashed over the side and spread over the maps on the table. Rafe whisked them up and set them on his cot.

“Please, don’t argue.” Martine took a rag from a shelf and began blotting the maps. The action helped her ignore the tension, thick and palpable, humming through the wagon. “I’ll marry Magor.”

“What of Lord Forrester?”

She looked at her grandmother, drew from her strength. “He has left.” And she gave him no encouragement to return.

“Are you certain?” Anya asked as she came closer.

Martine took comfort in her presence, but struggled with voicing the words once again. He’d asked her to wait, but that wasn’t possible. He’d never return before her wedding.

“Aye,” Rafe said harshly. “When the magistrate arrived, he fled.” He looked pointedly at her as if trying to convey a message. “He will not return.”

Anya took the rag from her hand and enveloped her in a hug. “’Tis right,” she whispered with heavy resignation and the tremble of tears in her voice. “The Irishman is gone. Remember him in yer heart, but in yer mind, replace him with Magor. Yer fate changed when Declan left and you did not follow.”

Realization flashed in her brother’s eyes. They swirled into a thunderstorm of fury. “All I can see is dishonor,” her brother said. He paced to the door and looked out over the encampment. “Gossip is swift and tart. Never will Magor truly trust you or me again.”

She shook her head, tears threatening. “Nay. I’ll make sure he does.”

Rafe’s pointed gaze found her, intense and sad. “No, my
siskaar
, ‘tisn’t the way of the Rom.”

Tears flooded her vision. How could something as beautiful and pure as her love for Declan have resulted in such gut wrenching pain and despair?

Her grandmother tugged on her arm. “Come,
bitti kom
.”

Martine gripped her stomach as it churned over the tension.

Rafe spat. “’Tis glad I am the Forrester is out of our midst. He brought dishonor.”

She glared at her brother, her mind well past the point of anger and treading fast into fury. “He was a good man in need of help.”

“Ha,” Rafe said with a humorless chuckle. “He killed his wife. Why not try to steal you away as well?”

Her knees buckled. Anya tried to stop her from falling onto the floor. The old woman lacked strength and Martine landed with a resounding thud. Her leader, her brother, came forward and offered a hand. She looked at his hand and then at his face. She accepted, no longer certain of her attachment to him and his to her. He seemed to have no loyalty to anything but the clan as a whole. Not even his brotherly love had softened his words.

“Why do you think he ran? A wealthy lord, living among the Gypsies. He was hunted.”

“No,” she said softly. “Declan would never kill. He is too kind. Too gentle.”

Rafe cocked a brow. She braced herself for more, as she could feel his anticipation.

“Grandson, ye’ve said enough. Leave the poor lass alone.”

He held up his hand. “Nay,
Púridaia
. She must know so she can forget him. Let us hope Magor will still have her.”

Anya pushed between them, her face awash in concern. “’Tis enough,
Kapo
. See to the clan. They have questions for you. Make certain you have the right answers.”

He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. With a brisk nod, he left his caravan to address the clan and elders. ‘Twould be a night of heated discussion, she knew, but necessarily so.

Martine sat on the edge of the cot. Her shoulders drooped with fatigue and the burdensome weight of remorse. “Declan, a murderer? I do not believe it.”

“Nor do I,” her grandmother said with conviction. “Why did he leave?”

“He said he had to prove his innocence.” She cringed when she realized her ignorance. Declan’s innocence had to be tied to his wife’s death.

Anya nodded. “Aye, he is innocent. I know it deep in my bones.”

Did she agree? Aye, her Declan would never kill another.

Her grandmother tipped her chin up with a crooked finger. “Can you be wearing red for yer wedding?”

She ducked her gaze, her body trembling at the thought of her confession. “Nay,” she whispered.

“Martine. You need to wed quickly before any sign of a babe is apparent.”

She moved her hand to her stomach. Dare she hope that they’d created a child together? ‘Twould be enough, she thought, to live out her days with Declan’s child as a reminder of their love. Would Magor know? Declan had dark hair. Would that fool her future husband? Och, what a mess she’d made of her life. What a liar she’d become.

She furrowed her brow at the deception. She’d be banned from the tribe. No home, no love—how could she survive?

The thought of a baby was dulled by her brother’s announcement. Declan wasn’t a murderer. She knew it deep within her heart—soul. He couldn’t have done what her brother had said. She’d never believe.

Martine left the caravan after a few moments to gather her thoughts and dry her tears. The night air lay heavy over the area, cool and oppressive. The elders gathered in the middle by the fire, her brother standing before them in his usual rigid stance. Many shouted out as each attempted to have their say. She stayed to the back, not wanting to gain their attention and perhaps the brunt of their anger.

“We must get the Irishman.”

“He brought the magistrate to our camp. We should hang ‘im.”

Rafe held up his hands for silence. “Nay, we’d just bring more of the wrath of the magistrate on us. Forrester is gone. He will pay for his crimes once the people of Riverton see him.”

“Nay,
Kapo
,” Linka’s husband yelled. “If Magor refuses her, we must have justice. The union would bring great honor and now we may have great shame.”

Her brother rubbed the back of his neck. Martine felt for him, his position one of great importance, yet little yield. Before she could think better of it, she walked to his side. He was her brother and she’d support him, even if that meant bringing their wrath upon her.

When she put her hand on his shoulder, he flinched.

“’Tis Martine’s fault. She kept the man here.”

Once again Rafe held up his hands to still the verbal lashing by the crowd. “My sister has been nothing but loyal to the Rom. Even,” he said with warning and a pointed glare at Linka’s husband, “when she has been treated with hostility. Do not forget, I allowed her to watch over the Irishman.”

Linka’s husband glowered at her. How she wanted to appear strong, but she quivered beneath his scrutiny.

“Go,” her brother said. “You’re needed elsewhere.”

She nodded, relieved to leave the boiling pot of Rom emotions and escape to her caravan where she could regain her composure.

Racing along the dewy grass, she reached her caravan quickly. A light flickered through the window, and Martine knew the privacy she sought was not to be had.

She inhaled, then released her breath as she opened the door. Her grandmother sat in a chair with a cup of tea poised in her hand.

“Sit,” Anya said without a trace of the usual softness.

Martine complied, then glumly stared at her hands. “I…I don’t know what to do.”

“That much I know,” Anya scoffed.

Tears threaded down her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hand and continued. “I love him.” She began to hiccup along with crying.

Anya rose, stiff, appearing older than Martine thought possible. “There, there,
bitti chovexani
.” She patted her head and smoothed her gnarled hands over her hair. “’Tisn’t yer fault.”

“I should have told Rafe,” she wailed.

“Yer brother wouldn’t have listened,” her grandmother insisted. “Each of us has our own destiny, Martine. Yers was forever changed when we rescued you.”

She nodded with little conviction, the guilt too strong to ignore, much less disregard. “What if Magor refuses me?” She touched her stomach as it churned with guilt and doubt.

“’Tis done,” Anya simply said. “The contracts signed. He will not refuse you.”

The crushing weight of the day nearly overrode any sense she had left. She gripped the wall, her body tired and weak.

“To bed with you. All will still be in shambles tomorrow.” Anya guided her to her bed.

Martine mustered a small chuckle before she shucked her clothing and climbed into bed.

So many questions swirled about her mind, plaguing her with uncertainty and fear. Sleep eluded her for a torturous amount of time. She rose from her bed and sat by the small window. Silence rang through the camp, the men and women long left for their beds. The moon crested in the sky beneath a blanket of clouds.

Where was Declan? Was he thinking of her? Or still running, if her brother’s words held any truth?

Her heart pattered against her chest with longing to see him once more. Again her hand found its way to her stomach.

Please, she prayed, let his child be within me.

Chapter 15

Declan rose slowly, stretching against the soft cushion of his bed and the warm weight of the counterpane. For a moment he smiled, then the reality of his life appeared to vex him.
Right
, he thought,
I’m still a hunted man
.

The cock had crowed its last warning that daybreak was upon Kilkenny. Declan rolled out of bed and planted his feet on the cool flooring of his chamber. Heavy drapes barred the sun like a shield protecting a warrior. Shadows clogged the corners and emerged from under his bed, grasping for his feet. Cold sweat moistened his palms and raced down his back as he tried to overcome the gut-wrenching panic threatening to consume him.

For a moment, his time in prison flashed before his eyes. The beatings, starvation, humiliation—all spiked his anxiety.

Declan ran a hand over his bed covering. The thick damask brought him back to where he was. In his manor home—not a prison cell. In a warm, huge bed—not a dirt floor with threadbare clothing to stave off the unbearable cold. Ready to break his fast with more food than imaginable—not wiping up gruel with filthy fingers, even stooping to lick the dirt clean of any drippings.

“I’m going insane,” he said aloud.

Although he knew the contrary, saying the words helped him realize it more clearly. Who wouldn’t have nightmares after what he’d gone through? He raked his fingers through his hair and stood to glance about the chamber in an attempt to slow the rapid beat of his heart. Neat, luxurious, yet barren of any identity. No mementos, not even a shirt tossed hastily aside. It looked as if he’d never lived here, and that made him lonelier than he could bear.

Declan sat again, the wind taken from him. There was Little, his men, and Finn Randolph. Besides Randolph, only Nate held a close relationship that would endure.

Bollocks
. He needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. He hated the weakness, the cowardly thoughts. If one of his men were to act in such a manner, he’d triple his training to drive the whining from him.

On that dour note, he began to dress. With a longing look, he glanced at the armoire, thinking of the Rom clothing and his desire to wear them. Aye, wouldn’t that startle the English when he and Finn rode across London Bridge?

Forgoing the urge to wear the uniform of the Gypsies, Declan slipped on a pair of dark wool pants, a shirt, and leather doublet. ‘Twould be comfortable for the long ride and dark enough to hide them as they rode through the night.

He trotted down the stairs two at a time, eager to find Finn and head toward proving his innocence.

The clatter of dishes sounded from the direction of the kitchen. He grinned, more than ready to sate his hunger with a fine meal.

Declan pushed open the door and stilled.

Sadie Bannon was laying out food on the servant’s table as if she did so every day. She obviously sensed his appearance and flashed him an all too knowing smile. “Glad to see you again, Lord Forrester.”

He crossed his arms before his chest. “And what are you doing here, Sadie?”

She flashed him a grin. “’Tisn’t the welcome I expected, but ‘twill do.”

“
Sadie
.”

She waved a hand at him and continued to fill cups with steaming tea. “Sit and eat. You’ve the look of a ghost about you.”

He cocked a brow at her. “I’ll not play these games with you. Where is Randolph?”

She wrinkled her brow and pouted. “I’ve worked hard to prepare a lovely meal for you. The least you can do is sit and enjoy it.”

He took a step forward. “Where is Randolph?” he growled.

She sighed. “He rode out at sunset. Just barreled out of the barn and headed to the village.”

Bollocks
. Declan wiped his brow of sweat. Where the hell did Finn go?

“You have a choice, m’lord. Either you can sit yourself down and eat, or I can be making my way to the magistrate now ensconced in Trenmore’s parlor for a morning respite. Now, won’t you be choosing to stay?”

He observed the haughty tip of her chin and the flash of challenge in her gaze. Aye, she’d do it, blast her. For the moment he had no choice. At the first possible moment he’d be following Finn’s path.

She hid her grin of satisfaction. Och, her plan was well on its way to fruition. Sadie watched Declan devour his meal as he glowered at her. Such a hot-blooded man. And so handsome. A shiver ran up her spine in anticipation of the evening she had sketched in her mind. Her, Declan, a fire and brandy. Then it would all fall into place.

“I’m leaving now,” Declan said as he interrupted her pleasant musings. “You are to stay here as long as you wish. Don’t follow me.”

Sadie reached and patted his hand. “Now, now. Won’t you be staying until I say otherwise?”

He scoffed and moved to leave the kitchen. “A wee lass such as yourself? How will you keep me here?”

She winked at him. “I’ve me ways, m’lord.”

She watched as realization flashed harshly across his face. With one fell swoop, the food and plates on the table landed on the floor with a resonating crash at the sweep of his hand.

“Damn you, Sadie.” He wobbled as he stood, just as she had planned.

“Tsk, tsk, Declan. Now just lean on me and we’ll find a place for you to rest.” She bore his weight as she lugged him toward the stairs. His body pitched forward, and she caught him before he landed on his handsome face. Declan stumbled and he was obviously barely conscious of his actions as a few guttural curses erupted from his mouth.

“Aye, m’lord, we’ll be resting together soon.”

Her words did not sooth him. Quite the opposite. He swaggered away from her, nearly pulling them down the unforgiving wood stairs.

Finally, Sadie thought with a sigh of relief, as they entered Declan’s chamber. She nudged him onto the bed and swung his feet up. Removing his boots, she regarded his sleeping form. ’Twas good fortune she’d wrestled a sleep draught from the village doctor despite his reluctance. Her theatrics had served her well in the wake of Abigail’s death. “Maybe I’m ready for the stage in Dublin,” she said with a chuckle.

Removing as much clothing as she could manage, she covered Declan with the counterpane and then stripped down to her chemise and linen petticoat.

Feeling peckish, she made her way back to the kitchen for a light snack. She made certain she did not stand before windows, lest someone from the village detect her appearance. Not that many wandered near the house since Abigail’s death and her father’s quick retreat after he laid her to rest.

’Twas a shame to leave such a grand house unoccupied. Sadie strolled through the main hall and elegant dining room. Even her home couldn’t compare to Riverton’s size and carved woodwork. Aye, she’d look well as hostess of this estate. She deserved it, truly earned it.

Sadie finished a crumpet and took a last sip of tea before heading back up to Declan’s chamber. Once there, she slipped into his bed and snuggled up to his muscular body. The heat of him warmed her instantly. She moved closer, roaming her hands over his hard muscles. Aye, he was a finely built man. In the morn, she’d present him with their deeds of the night, the passion they shared, and sweet love they made.

The honor she knew was deeply imbedded in him would warrant he marry her. Of that, she was certain.

Declan woke groggy, his head throbbing. He hadn’t a megrim such as this since he arrived at the Gypsy camp. He rubbed his temples and wished for Anya’s concoction to ease the pain. Reaching for a pillow to cover his face from the strong morning sun, his hand collided with a decidedly human body.

“Och, m’lord, ‘tis a fine way to start the day.”

He bolted upright, his head swimming at the effort. “
Bollocks
.”

“No need for that, Declan.”

He glared at Sadie Bannon, freshly risen and wearing only a chemise.

Nay
. He couldn’t have.

She wagged a finger at him and in a light-hearted tone said, “Since we worked up such an appetite last night, I’ll fix us breakfast.”

Declan groaned. The last thing he remembered was eating with Sadie the day before. He couldn’t remember anything after that.
Damn
, he wished Finn was here. Where the hell had his friend gone?

Knowing the mess wouldn’t be sorted out with him still abed, Declan dressed and went to the kitchen. His rubbed his aching head and looked for a water picture to quench his thirst.

Sadie grinned as she moved away from the stove. “Ah, I see you’ve decided to join me.”

As if he had any choice. “Tell me everything.”

She flashed a feline smile as she set down a platter of biscuits. “’Twas pure bliss, to be sure. You were the most attentive lover.”

He scoffed as a foreboding chill raised the hairs on his neck. He remembered nothing of the night—nothing. “You are a liar.”

She frowned. “Nay, Declan. I speak the truth of it.”

He pushed open the door that led to the estate’s kitchen garden. Fresh air slapped him like a wave of cold water. He inhaled, trying to rid himself of the putrid feeling deep inside. He was certain he was rotting from the inside out, his gut clenched as beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and back.

“M’lord, your food grows cold,” Sadie purred from behind him.

He ignored her and paced toward the stables. How, he questioned himself, could he have forsaken Martine by coupling with Sadie?

The image of Martine appeared before him, her face softly lit by candlelight. Her luxurious hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, teasing across her breast. He rubbed the back of his neck as Declan remembered his love and her wish he leave. He should have stayed, pleaded with her to see the sense of plan.

Sadie curled her hand over his shoulder and attempted to pull him toward her.

He remembered.

It flooded his mind with murky illusions. Sadie grinning across the table. Her proclamation they’d be together, him stumbling up the stairs, his vision blurred, his throat parched.

Declan turned to Sadie, his anger traveling as fast as an errant ember catches dry timber on fire. He clenched his fist at his side, wanting to pummel her for her deceit. “What did you do to me?”

The feigned innocence of her gaze incensed him further. He couldn’t quell his fury. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“Declan,” she began as she stepped backward. “Don’t ye see? We should be together.”

“Me and
you
?” He sneered at her, his mouth a frown as tension ran its course through his body.

Her lip trembled. “Aye. I wanted you to see how we should be together.”

“You drugged me?” he growled.

She paled a bit and tears filled her eyes. “Aye,” whispered past her lips. “We did not . . . we . . . you were too drugged.”

He slammed his fist against the side of the barn. “Damn you, Sadie.”

She threw herself at him, wrapped him in an embrace so tight he was forced to struggle out of it.

He ripped Sadie’s arms from their strangle hold around his neck.

“Go,” he said as he pointed to the house. “Gather your things and go.”

With steely determination, she straightened and made her way to the house. “The magistrate will hear about this, mark my word,” she threatened as she paced away from him.

“I’m headed to the magistrate myself. I’ll save you the trip.” He entered the barn and began to ready Kindred for the ride to the village.

“That’s my lad,” he said to his steed as he brushed his coat to gleaming. The horse stomped in response, obviously eager to go for a ride.

As he hefted the saddle onto the stallion’s back, an acrid smell drifted into the barn. He sniffed again and tossed the saddle aside.

He raced from the barn. Black smoke billowed from the estate.

Riverton.

He picked up his pace, then broke into a run.

Riverton was ablaze.

’Twas a lost cause. Never could he stomp out the fire licking up the roof and lapping angrily out the windows.

A movement near the main entrance attracted his attention. He moved closer, then ran to the bottom of the steps.

Sadie Bannon stood just inside the door. A look of madness widened her eyes as she shook her fist at him. “’Tis mine, Declan. All mine.”

He bound up the stairs and clutched the edge of her gown. She wrestled from him, delving into the pit of hell burning within the estate.

“Sadie,” he yelled. She disappeared near his study. He ducked as a beam fell behind him. Smoke clogged his lungs and singed his eyes. Still, he searched for her. “Sadie!”

A flash of white near the kitchen lured him further into the inferno.

He wiped sweat from his brow and crouched close to the floor and continued. Coughing fiercely, he leapt over a hole burned into the floor. He entered the kitchen, yet there was no Sadie.
Bollocks
, where had the blasted woman gone? Beams crashed behind him, blocking his retreat to the front of the house. Declan skirted a flash of flames near the stove and broke through the garden door.

He rolled on the grass and vegetables, cooling his body and extinguishing sparks on his clothing. Sadie wasn’t there.

He lifted from his knees and moved away from the burning building.

“What a lovely sight, to be sure.”

He turned toward the voice. Sadie stood behind him, pistol drawn. Her dress was scorched along the hem and ashes smudged against her fair skin.

“Come, Declan.”

“Put the gun down.”

She shrugged, but wildness filled her eyes. “Now why would I be doing that?”