Gypsy Bond (2 page)

“Why are you here?” His tone was brusque.

Disappointment welled up, scattering her thoughts. This was not the beloved boy of her memories. He was a stranger who appeared not only hard of body but perhaps hard of spirit and of heart as well. She clamped her arms around her waist under the cloak to subdue the sudden trembling of her body.

His eyes narrowed to slits of black. “Having second thoughts?” he inquired with lethal softness.

He had always been able to read her emotions but had never attempted to intimidate her. Her brother used this tactic on her often and she had learned how to withstand it. She straightened her shoulders and faced him squarely. “No. We are wed.”

“We are not.”

The words were so baldly dismissive that they bordered on rude. A flare of anger spread through her and she stepped closer. “How dare you deny it? We were hand-fasted by the
Rom
baro
.” She put out a hand to beseech those near her. It was unusual for a Rom to be allowed to wed a
gadjo
.
Surely a few among them must remember. When no one spoke up, she let her hand fall back to her side. Their silence, she realized, was not a failure of memory, but reluctance to interfere.

Marko bent his head in acknowledgement. The golden flames of the fire played along the curls at his collar, turning them to bright copper. She wanted to reach and touch those locks, see if they were as soft and silky as they looked. If so, it was the only thing soft about him. Above high cheekbones, his eyes glinted as black and polished as obsidian. His lips pressed firmly together before he spoke again. “Again, all true, but the troth was broken.”

“Not by me. I have abided by our accord these many years.” And lost all she held dear in the process.

“I have not.”

Juliet sucked in a painful breath, her breasts lifting to press against the constricting fabric of her laced stays. She had waited for him. Fighting both her father and her brother, she had won the right to suffer long years alone on the hope that he would return. Surely it had not all been in vain. “I – I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

His laugh was a harsh sound that was echoed by one of the men nearby. “I think you do,” he said with silky malice. “Another has taken your place in my bed.”

She struck at his face with an open hand.

He moved with remarkable swiftness, catching her wrist in a firm grip. Staring at his fingers, dark against the lighter tones of her skin, the last of her hopes shriveled and blew away like dry leaves, tumbling before the wind. This man had once held her with tenderness and youthful passion. She had burned for him in the endless stretch of lonely nights, had wanted nothing more than to see him again. She had yearned for him to hold her, to seduce her with whispered Romany words of love as he slowly peeled away the layers of her constrictive clothing and brought her to life.

Her gaze moved to the woman on the far side of the fire, the one with whom he’d been sitting. Full-figured and pretty, her long dark hair was bound by a ribbon. She exuded an air of sensual grace as she lay against the soft rugs, her gaze hooded but her attitude alert, as if she were wary of the auburn-haired stranger. Juliet raised her eyes to Marko’s face. “Our hand-fasting meant nothing to you?”

An arrested look rose in his eyes as if for a moment he too felt the pain of their separation then he shrugged, an offhand gesture that hurt more than his earlier annoyance. “A hand-fasting only holds two people together if there is love in their hearts. You proved long ago that there was none in yours and I was released.”

She frowned, unsure what he meant. She had loved him when they jumped the fire and would have claimed she still did until tonight. Now, she wasn’t sure she knew him.

A youth, dressed in knee-length pants and a white shirt, approached from the darkness between the
vardos
.
Marko released her and bent his head to listen to the boy’s low whisper. Straightening, he turned with an abrupt motion, clapping his hands. A sharp order was issued and two men jumped to attention. Crossing the clearing, they moved toward the horses with long, athletic strides.

Twisting back to face her, Marko spoke. “There are others coming. You must return home. There will be no peace for the tribe if you are found here.”

“Let them come. I have no reputation to protect.” The words were flavored with the bitterness of years of snubs and snide remarks whispered behind lace fans. “I lost it the night we planned to run away together. I waited at our meeting place until dawn and was seen walking home. It made no difference to the gossips that the tribe was gone before I got there.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Surely you weren’t convicted on so little evidence?”

“No,” she agreed baldly. “I was found guilty by my own admission. My father arranged for me to marry an older man, one who would excuse the scandal to obtain a nubile wife in his bed. He changed his mind when I told him I’d married a gypsy in a pagan ceremony. No man has offered for my hand since then.”

“Perhaps the bride price was too high.”

She barely choked back a gasp then turned away to hide the tears his disdain brought to the corners of her eyes. Did he think her so worthless that no man would pay to take her? The Rom custom was for the father of the bride to receive compensation for the loss of his daughter. In her world, the husband demanded the payment as a lure to take on a wife. “No man wants soiled goods, no matter the dowry.”

Marko stepped close and placed one hand along her cheek. She felt the slight sting of cool metal from the rings on his fingers. Putting pressure on her jaw, he lifted her chin and looked down at her. “The
gadjos
are fools.”

He turned her face, studying her profile in the flickering light. “If anything, your beauty has improved with age.” His expression was impassive, as if he was viewing a piece of art, but his fingers drifted down the side of her neck with gentle strokes, finding sensitive nerves that pulsed to life.

She liked the deep timbre of his voice as it fell on her ears. As difficult as it was to release her memories of him as a youth, there was much to like in the man he had become. She wanted to stare at him, to study him as he had her. The features that seemed chiseled by the hand of a master sculptor, the powerful muscles in his arms that tightened against his shirt. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the hint of wood smoke, horses and raw night air on his skin and clothes. She breathed deeply of the familiar scent. For a wisp of time, she glimpsed the lad she recalled under the grim exterior of the man before her. He was still her Marko.
Her lover.
Her husband.

Juliet leaned into his touch and swayed toward him, her skirts brushing against the worn leather of his boots. She thought there was an answering flare in the depths of his dark eyes before he released her and turned away. Without him near, the night crept in, cooling her skin and leaving her feeling a prize fool. She had her answer. He didn’t want her. She turned back toward the path she’d come down.

“Juliet.”

Marko’s voice was quiet yet carried a hint of command that she responded to instinctively. She turned as he reached for her elbow, guiding her around the fire toward the wagons. “You will go with
Vadoma
.” They stopped in front of the old woman whom Juliet had earlier compared to a witch, and Marko helped her to her feet. “Stay with her until I come for you.”

She wanted to argue, but he was gone, easing into the shadows between the wooden wagons as if he’d never been there at all. The sound of horse hooves coming closer echoed through the trees. Tension hovered over the camp. An unexpected guest at night was seldom good news. Someone strummed an instrument and a young girl rose and danced slowly, the layers of her skirt flowing with her graceful movements. The old woman called
Vadoma
beckoned to her with a hand covered in gold rings. Juliet followed her, glad to leave the curious stares of those around the fire.

The wagon that the woman led her to sat on the far edge of the camp. Inside, it was pitch black until
Vadoma
lit an oil lamp using the glowing end of a stick she had pulled from the fire. Juliet had been in a
vardo
before, but never one so packed with things. The rafters were strung with rows of drying flowers, herbs and mushrooms, thickening the air with an overwhelming combination of sharp woodsy scents and sweet floral. Small pots and jars with cork stoppers were lined up in racks built against one wall. Unusual items, perhaps mementos of her ramblings through Europe, were everywhere. A carved clock of dark wood, the blue glass circle of a charm against the evil eye and nested boxes painted to resemble women vied for space with pillows, rugs and woven blankets.

Staring at a wall hanging with a star in the middle and embroidered designs that represented the seasons around the edge, Juliet was startled into speech. “Are you a witch?”

“Witches are like to be burned at the stake,” the woman said with gentle reproof. “I am a healer. My name,
Vadoma
, means to have knowledge. I have served that pledge all my life.” She gestured at the low bench that appeared to be made up as a sleeping cot with a gaily colored quilt covering its wooden surface. “Sit. I will make tea.”

Juliet watched as she placed a copper kettle over the flame of a small burner and measured tea leaves into a china pot with faded red roses painted on its rim. Cups were pulled from hooks on the wall and the woman spun a stick in a pot of thick golden honey, adding a hefty portion to each. When it was ready,
Vadoma
handed her a cup and settled next to her on the bench. The old woman sighed with pleasure as she sipped at her own cup of steaming brew. Hot and sweet, it was exactly what Juliet needed.

“Marko was named our
Rom
baro
two years ago,” the woman said, her words heavily accented with the rhythm of various languages. “I have watched him grow into a strong man, one not likely to give over to a girl’s whim.”

“Marko is the tribe’s leader?” Juliet couldn’t keep the wonder from her tone. She’d sensed the change in him – the tough, almost dangerous edge that he’d not carried when she’d known him before. It made him more attractive, she realized with uneasy surprise. What kind of woman was she that her breath quickened and her body tightened with cravings for the dark and dangerous?

“We chose him because he is experienced in the outside world. We have done well under him.” The old lady spread her hands to display the gold rings that adorned each finger. “We have what we need and it is enough for most, but not for Marko. I fear that he is being seduced by the outside ways.”

Roms
, Juliet knew, preferred to keep their money on their person in the form of jewelry or coins. It wasn’t so much the gaudy display that most people thought as a handy way to trade. To be tied down by too many possessions was sacrilege. Gypsies wanted no more than the wind at their backs and the stars over their heads at night. They traveled with the seasons, wintering in the warmer climates and returning to England with the spring. It had once been all Juliet desired as well, but looking around the tiny wagon, she wasn’t sure if she could have turned her back on all she knew to take up this life. “To desire a sturdy roof over your head is not an unusual thing,” she said with a touch of asperity.

“Perhaps not for some,” the old woman agreed. She took another sip from her cup. “We have adopted other things from the
gadjos
. Our marriages have been blessed by the parish priest these long years now. Our children are baptized and thus can’t be taken from us as heathen slaves.”

Juliet frowned. “But I was bound to Marko. I watched your tribe dance around the May pole–”

“Yes, yes,”
Vadoma
interrupted, “we honor the old ways as well. To not do so would be to tempt fate, wouldn’t it?” She shrugged. “I have seen many generations jump the
Springfire
for luck, but still very little of it falls on my people.”

The gypsies had lived with distrust and persecution for centuries. The ways in which such a history would shape a person were hard to imagine. Juliet frowned as she stared into her cup. There was some undercurrent to the conversation that was eluding her. “So you don’t believe in the ancient magic?”

Carefully setting her cup to one side,
Vadoma
reached to take Juliet’s hand and turned it palm up. Her skin was surprisingly smooth; it was likely the younger women of the tribe did most of the chores. Juliet’s breath caught and held as the woman bent her head over their joined hands and stared down at them with quiet intent.

“I believe we are born with a destiny that is written in the stars and reflected in our palm,” she said at last. She traced one fingernail across Juliet’s palm, the touch light yet somehow searing at the same time.