MIDNIGHT CONQUEST: Book 1 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (27 page)

They rode in silence for a few moments before Rosselyn turned to Davina, opening her mouth as if to say something, but closed her mouth when their eyes met. Rosselyn’s cheeks bloomed with color and she diverted her gaze.

“Rosselyn, are you well?” Davina leaned over in her saddle and touched her friend’s hand in a show of support.

Rosselyn opened her mouth, her bottom lip quivering, and then nodded. “Aye, Davina. All is well.” Patting Davina’s hand, Rosselyn comforted her mistress and then urged her horse forward toward the Gypsy camp.

As Rosselyn headed for Nicabar’s caravan, an unexpected ache rose in Davina’s chest. Rosselyn and Nicabar spent more and more time together. Was she losing her maid and best friend? Perhaps that was what Rosselyn tried to tell her on the ride over. Rosselyn deserved to be happy, and Davina never saw her friend glow like she did with Nicabar. Her brow furrowed and her protective nature bubbled up. He had better not be playing with her friend’s emotions. She narrowed her eyes and encouraged her horse to Broderick’s caravan, making a mental note to keep an eye on this relationship.

Fife waited with the horses at the edge of the camp, talking and laughing with a few of the Gypsy men. The afternoon chill stinging her cheeks didn’t seem any different from the frostiness of the early morn. The days were definitely getting colder. “And we are in for a storm,” she mumbled at the darkening horizon, watching the fading sunlight.

Amice rambled in French at her granddaughter, something about keeping to herself and not chasing after something that would never come to be. As Davina approached their site, the young woman scowled at Davina, and Amice grabbed her arm, whispering in her ear. Gasps of protest hissed from the girl who stomped into the caravan, leaving Davina alone with aged Gypsy.

“Please, join me,
chérie
,” Amice invited, and Davina sat on the wooden stool opposite the old woman. From a pot sitting on the fire, Amice ladled steaming pottage into bowls and handed one to Davina, along with a chunk of grain bread. “I do not like to eat alone.”

Davina couldn’t refuse such a tantalizing aroma and blew on the thick brew before tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into the bowl. Pottage never tasted so flavorful. Picking through the stew, Davina could see Amice had skills with herbs in more than medicinal ways. “Thank you, Amice, this is delicious.”

“
Merci beaucoup
, Davina.” Amice’s grin was overshadowed by her wrinkled brow.

“What troubles you, Amice?”

Amice bit off the end of her bread. “Nothing to concern yourself with,
chérie
.” She nibbled her stew before continuing. “And how is your mother?”

“Actually, she’s the reason I came here today. She’s plagued with terrible head pains. I know not what to do. I hope you have some herbal remedies.”

“
Oui
.” Amice put her food down upon her stool and opened the caravan door. Veronique sat inside, glaring at Davina. Davina expected the impertinent girl would stick her tongue out as she’d done when she was a child. She tried not to scowl back and pondered what the girl had against her. From a cabinet under the bed, Amice pulled a large woven basket filled with herbs and oils, then closed the door, sat on her stool, and produced a jar with a large cork stopper, which she removed.

“This is a mixture of several herbs,” she explained as she scooped out the seeds and dried bits, and poured them onto a piece of cloth, carefully wrapping and tying them into a little bundle. “Chamomile, hawthorn, hops, and peppermint, among others, but trust me…they will help.” She corked the jar and handed the wrapped herbs to Davina. Amice cupped her hand and drew circles in the center of her palm with her index finger, saying, “Measure a small amount into your palm and make an infusion for her to drink when her head hurts. To prevent the pains from returning, tell her to eat a fresh leaf of feverfew daily between two slices of bread.” Amice put her basket aside and wrinkled her nose. “The feverfew is bitter, which is why she must eat the leaf with bread.”

“Thank you so very much, Amice.” The two women went back to eating the pottage and bread. Davina admired the painted tent siding of the woman with flowing blonde hair and cards on a table before her. “This painting resembles your granddaughter,” Davina observed, “but I saw it many years ago when she was little. Surely ‘tis not a portrait of her.”

Amice glanced at the painting and blushed. “
Non
, that is not of Veronique.” She leaned forward and whispered with mischief in her voice. “
C’est moi!
” Amice giggled like a little girl.

Davina chuckled. “You?”

“
Oui!
Broderick is a very talented artist,
non
? He painted a picture of me in my youth.”

Davina stopped chewing, surprised by the admission and the shocking aspect of Broderick’s talent. She swallowed the bite of bread she’d taken. “Broderick painted that?”

Amice nodded proudly and turned her attention to her bowl, stirring the stew with her bread. “He also painted those wooden tablets I have shown you.”

Davina gasped, remembering the detailed images on the fortune telling tool Amice had used during their last visit. “How amazing! You must be so proud of your son.”

Amice’s eyes went wide. “My son?” She laughed. “Oh,
non
,
chérie
. Broderick is not my son.” Amice scooted forward and scooped some more pottage into her bowl, offering Davina more of the stew. After giving Davina a second helping, she settled back, licking her lips. “I will tell you the story. We made camp along the coast on the south of England, outside a large city called Portsmouth. We did not camp within or closer to the city as Gypsies are not welcome there.”

“Truly?” Davina protested. “I cannot imagine you not being welcome, with all the variety of wares and entertainment you bring with you.”

Amice nodded and rolled her eyes. “Oh, there are many places we are not welcome.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “The large town of Strathbogie being one of them. Especially after that horrible Black Death. So much distrust. That is why we come to your little village. We make our parade through Strathbogie to announce our arrival, and those who do favor us come here. We are fortunate you are close enough for them to venture, yet far enough away for them not to bother us.”

“I see.” Davina knew some of the people from Strathbogie through the various marketing trips she and her family made to the larger establishment. The people from Strathbogie also came to Stewart Glen to enjoy what the Gypsies had to offer, which brought additional business to their village.

Amice waved her bread as she continued. “Veronique was only four years old at that time and wandered off. I only turned around for a moment and the child was gone! I searched the tents and wagons in the darkness of night. I asked the other people if they saw her, and then I heard her yelp—a quick, little cry, but I heard it well, and the sound froze my heart as I realized it had come from the water’s edge. Running as fast as my legs could carry me to the water, I screamed for help. Many of the people in our camp ran with me.” Amice leaned forward and laid a hand on Davina’s forearm, whispering in amazement. “Before we reached the shore, this giant man rose from the water, carrying my little Veronique in his arms as she cried. Broderick was an angel rescuing her from a watery grave, and he has been with us since that day. He has most definitely become like a son to me through the years, though. That is why I call him my son.”

“What a wonderful story!” Though the story did delight her and presented insight into the heart of Broderick MacDougal, Davina now understood why Veronique held such contempt for her. The young girl was not a niece of Broderick’s as Davina presumed, but must fancy herself in love with him. No doubt the Gypsy girl knew of Broderick’s pursuit of Davina, and probably saw her as the enemy. Well, the girl fretted over nothing. She wouldn’t get in Veronique’s way.

When they finished eating, Davina helped Amice wash the bowls and the old woman led her to the front side of the wagon. “Help me with these,
s’il vous plaît
,” she ordered, and Davina struggled with Amice to pull out and uncover four life-size portraits from a long and apparently deep side cabinet. Names delicately carved on flat wood pieces labeled the bottom of each portrait.

The resemblance was striking. “Broderick’s family,” she whispered.

“
Oui
. All murdered by his rival clan, the Campbells.”

Davina’s heart ached over Amice’s words. “Aye, he did share the loss of his family with me, but briefly. He said he doesn’t talk about it overmuch.” Knowing a feuding clan was responsible put the mass destruction into perspective. However, such brutal clan wars were not so common these days, at least not in this part of the country, and especially since such battles were outlawed since the Crown took over the dispensing of justice.

“His mother,” Amice said, pointing to the appropriate portraits. “His father, and these were his younger brothers.”

Standing with pride in the first painting, Moira MacDougal stared back at Davina with intense eyes so much like Broderick’s, yet golden brown instead of Broderick’s emerald green. Her ebony hair cascaded over her right shoulder, and she wore a red, green, and light blue plaid, which Davina assumed were Broderick’s clan colors. This portrait showed a woman of a fiery nature. Courageous and forceful, Davina guessed, judging by the male garments she wore and stood in with such pride. How unusual and, Davina suspected, even frowned upon. Scotsmen loved such courage and independence in a woman, but not in open display or in such a masculine way. They also loved and reveled in a woman’s femininity, as she assumed most men of any nationality would. Didn’t a woman’s feminine nature make a man feel all the more masculine? This woman intrigued Davina and created more of a mystique around Broderick MacDougal.

Broderick’s fiery, russet hair blazed upon the head of his father, Hamish MacDougal, and most of Broderick’s striking, handsome features and green eyes came from this man, as well as his demanding appearance. Hamish stood regally in the painting; as if confident he would get what he wanted when he wanted it. She snorted—like father, like son.

Davina stepped to the next painting, labeled “Maxwell MacDougal.” Maxwell’s black hair shimmered to his broad shoulders, his features handsome and linear. His painted brown eyes gazed back with a touch of humor and even vanity, one might say, one raven brow raised a touch higher than the other—so much like Broderick’s gesture Davina had come to know. With his hands resting upon the hilt of his sword, Maxwell stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, the tip of the blade between his feet.

Donnell MacDougal’s features were softer, more like Moira’s, and his hair, cut in a rather old-fashioned, cropped style, fell golden red just past his ears. His sea-green eyes peered from the canvas with solemnity, his pink lips serious. He stood tall with his hands behind his back and sword sheathed at his hip. Davina pondered their old-fashioned garments, some twenty or thirty years out of date—maybe more. She narrowed her eyes in curiosity as she gazed at their clothing and then back at their faces.

“Broderick painted these,” Amice said with pride.

Davina stood in awe, staring at the details and emotions brought to life in the figures before her. She almost expected them to step off the canvas and greet her. “Remarkable!”

“Broderick has lost everyone important in his life,
chérie
. Because he opened his heart, he is afraid to love again, afraid to trust.”

Davina knew all too well how love and opening one’s heart could cause a vulnerability others could take advantage of. She and Broderick had more in common than she realized, which comforted her. They both shared the same grief, and this commonality created a link between them, deepening at the sight of his family. She now had faces and names to accompany the facts.

“From the first moment I met him,” Davina began, “I’ve been unable to get him out of my mind.” She stepped forward and traced Hamish’s eyes with her finger and noticed how Broderick’s eyes were much greener. She turned to Maxwell and touched his handsome smirk, so like Broderick’s roguish grin. Davina touched her own lips and smiled. “You know, I used to dream about marrying Broderick after I met him. Such girlish fantasies.” She turned to Amice. “Silly, is it not? I met him so briefly as a rail of a girl, and he has plagued my dreams ever since.”

Amice took Davina’s hand and turned her palm up to study the lines on her skin.

“Broderick told me of my troubled future,” she informed Amice, referring to the first time she’d met Broderick. “He was right. My husband turned out to be a very cruel man, and I’m not sad he’s dead.”

Amice gazed at her with a furrowed brow and she touched Davina’s cheek. “Oh,
chérie
, you even lost a little one,
oui
?”

Davina’s eyes stung and she nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat. Her miscarriage. “Aye,” she managed after a moment. “You can see such things in my palm?”