Royal 02 - Royal Passion (6 page)

The gypsy men tended the horses and did odd repair jobs around the camp before throwing themselves on the rugs around the central fire. The women cleaned the turkeys brought by several of the children, throwing the refuse to the waiting dogs. They stuffed the birds with herbs and onions and set them to roast over the coals of a separate cook fire. The children played, chasing each other around the caravans or knocking a ball about with a stick. The old violinist began to play. A man picked up the mandolin, strumming it, and they were joined by someone else on a concertina. A young woman, stirred by the music, pushed away from where she leaned on a caravan and began to dance. Her hair, held only by a fillet around her forehead, spilled in a wild black tangle down her back. Her eyes were dark and lustrous with pleasure. Her blouse of soft cotton hugged her body, while her skirt swirled around her in its bright-colored fullness, now outlining her hips, now lifting to show her knees and thighs. She swayed as if in a trance, whirling; her legs and arms, feet and hands, moving in smooth, natural rhythm, a pure interpretation of the night and the moment and the sweet passion of the music.

The evening advanced, but none seemed to care about the hour or even to notice it. Food would be forthcoming when it was ready. Babies who cried were given the breast at once or fed bits of meat or bread soaked in wine or goat's milk before being put to bed. The elderly nodded, half asleep. In the meantime, life was life and meant to be lived. Who knew what the next hour might bring? Let the music play. Dance. Sing. To Mara, watching, it seemed a beguiling philosophy.

She did not hear the arrival of the prince. Whether it was truly as silent as it seemed or if it was just that she was lost in the music and the dance, she could not tell, but one moment she was alone, the next he was beside her.

No particular welcome greeted him. His presence was accepted as natural, as if he were one of them. It was surprising to Mara. She had expected some acknowledgment, some form of honor. There came an opportunity to ask him about it later, when the turkeys had been carved and handed around and the camp, intent on eating, was quiet.

"I am the son of the
boyar
,” he said. “What honor should there be for that?"

"I don't know since I have no idea what you mean by
boyar
."

"In my part of the world, the
boyar
is the owner, the ruler. It's the title my father holds over these people."

"He owns them?"

"No one ever really owns a gypsy; the old
boyars
only thought they did. But because my father's father, and his father before him, cared for their ancestors, fed and clothed them and gave them work while letting them come and go at will, this band still gives our line the right to the title. It means little except for the remembrance of ancient privilege, ancient loyalty."

"But if this band comes, as I suppose they must, from your country, what are they doing here in France?"

The glance he sent her was opaque."Wanderers, outlaws, victims with hungry hearts, they come and go. Must there be a reason?"

"I thought perhaps it was because you are here."

"Why? Is that what brought you?"

With deadly astuteness, he had found his mark. She felt the words like a rapier thrust to the chest, but she had learned enough of this man to know to expect an attack. Quite suddenly she had no appetite, however. She leaned forward to place the turkey wing she held in front of Demon, who was lying at her feet. The dog looked from the wing to her, as if in doubt, then, barking at a slinking gypsy dog that was encroaching, began to gnaw on the wing.

Straightening again, Mara drew her brows together in a frown. “What makes you say that? I did not come of my own will so far as I know. Or have you learned something to my discredit? Am I the kind of woman who would be likely to pay a clandestine visit to a man?"

"A courtesan, all satin smiles and silken guile? A strumpet with outstretched hand? I think not. But they are not always easily identified, such women, and those who hide behind respectability are the worst of their kind."

"How very like a man to condemn women who—who only do what they must."

He tilted his head. “You would defend them?"

She felt herself floundering in verbal quicksand, but could not discover a way to extricate herself. “Not—not exactly. I only question the right of any man to censure females who must live in accordance with the rules laid down by men."

"Another advocate of suffrage for women. Our George will be delighted."

"What?"

"George Sand, known otherwise, and much against her will, as Madame Dudevant. You must meet her."

He rose to his feet without giving her time to answer. His voice quiet and yet carrying, he gave terse orders. The cadre looked up, most with food in their hands or mouths. No one moved. The gypsies watched motionless also. “You heard me correctly,” the prince said, his tone gentle, “unless there has been an epidemic of deafness?"

Instantly, food and drink was abandoned. Men scrambled to their feet and moved purposely in every direction, gypsies as well as the prince's men. Mara, seeing what appeared to be preparation for a full-scale departure rather than a sortie, felt a terrible fear move through her. Was the prince leaving the camp? If so, when would he return?

"Where are you going?” she asked, her lips dry.

"That must be obvious."

"Not—not to me."

"The tracks of the carriage that brought you came from Paris and returned there. Nothing more can be learned of you here. We must also return to Paris."

"You and your men—your followers."

"Of course. And you."

"You want me to come?” The sickness inside her should have disappeared. It did not.

The glow of the fire turned the prince's face into an inscrutable mask with blue enamel for eyes. His voice was deep, with a chilling caress, as he answered.

"I want you."

[Back to Table of Contents]

The pace Roderic set on the road to Paris was swift, with no concession to a weak rider. At first Mara had been exhilarated by the thunder of the horses’ hooves, the whip of the wind in her face, the racing of the blood in her veins. She had enjoyed, in some strange way, the feeling that she was a part of the group around the prince, as if she belonged. More, she had had the satisfaction of achieving a part of her goal without effort, that of being taken into the prince's household and of going back to Paris with him. Neither of these were enough to sustain her.

Mara's mount was a large roan, built to carry the weight of a man. His strength was tireless, but it took much of hers to hold him in. Though a good rider, she was used to a sidesaddle; her muscles were not conditioned to riding astride, the only method available. As the hours passed with only infrequent pauses to rest the horses, her bruised shoulder began to ache, spreading to the small of her back. A throbbing began in her injured temple and grew until it pulsed with every stride of her mount. Her entire body began to feel as if she were being beaten, a methodical punishment. The need to stop became an agony.

She refused to cry quarter. It was easy to see that the men with the prince felt no fatigue, nor did Trude. Roderic himself rode with the ease of a man accustomed to unending days in the saddle, so used to moving with his horse that he did it effortlessly, bending his thoughts to other problems. To ask to stop and rest for what remained of the night would be to become an encumbrance. The others would resent her weakness that held them back, even if they were too polite to show it. The prince might also decide that bringing her with him had been a mistake, one he could not risk. In any case, after a time it was too late. She had the distinct feeling that if she ever stopped, ever got down, she might be violently ill. The prospect of that humiliation kept her upright.

The gray light of dawn crept into the sky. Slowly, the forms of the other riders became visible. The prince rode in the lead with Michael beside him. Next came Trude and one of the twins, while Estes rode alongside Mara and the other twin brought up the rear. The Italian, catching her glance, gave her a broad smile and a salute. From a basket attached to his saddle, Demon, blinking sleepily, yawned and wagged his tail in greeting. As the pale light increased, the dark pall that was the smoke rising from the chimney pots of Paris could be seen ahead of them.

They were nearing a side lane. A cart, piled high with cabbage and driven by a stolid French peasant as broad as he was tall, was coming along the lane. An ancient horse plodded between the shafts, his back so thick with scars that he was immune to the cracking of the whip at his ears. The peasant saw them advancing, for they caught the look he sent from under thick brows in their direction, saw the unpleasant curl of his thick lips. Yet he made no effort to halt or give way. Instead, he began to pull across the main road, turning into it.

There was no order given, not the exchange of so much as a word, but suddenly the pace of the cadre quickened to a gallop. Grins appeared. Horses were urged as the members of the cadre leaned forward and reins were gathered close. Under her, Mara's own mount, responding to the charge of his fellows, picked up speed. Hooves began to thunder. Clods of dirt were thrown up. They were sweeping down on a collision course with the cart.

The peasant, his mouth open, began to saw on his reins, trying too late to back up his vehicle. Closer, they came. Closer. Soft murmurs were heard as men spoke to their horses. Demon made a sound that was half whimper, half growl, then retreated into his basket. The swift wind of their passage stung the eyes. Roderic's face was alight with exuberance and joy and steely purpose.

They were going to jump the cart. It was to be a lesson in manners and a pointed reminder of the perils of stubbornness for the surly peasant. Mara saw the course and her own choice. She could wrench her mount around, if she had the strength, if she did not crowd into the man behind her so that they both came down. Or she could give the roan his head and pray that she had not held him back too long. There was no time for the careful weighing of alternatives, only for the pulse of instinct. She loosened her reins.

The peasant shouted and flung himself from the cart. The cart horse reared once, twice. Michael's mount gathered himself, then soared. In that moment, Roderic, even as his own white stallion began the jump, looked back. He saw Mara's loose reins, saw her hand clenched in her horse's mane. His features hardened, then horse and man made a clean white arch over the cart, landing on the other side. Mara's roan gave a last tremendous stride, bunched his muscles and took flight.

She was surging upward, sailing as if on some winged steed. The cart and the gaping peasant and the hard ground seemed far below. She saw Roderic clinging to the back of his stallion, which was rearing with the suddenness of the halt, the horse's neck arched as his head was dragged around. Then the downward plunge began. The forefeet of the roan hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud. She waited for the jolting pain of it to strike through her. It did not come, for she was still airborne, her feet free of the stirrups, her cloak and skirts flying in the wind.

Abruptly, she collided with something white and hard. It seared her forehead, ramming her neck into her shoulders, and whipped around her waist to constrict her breathing. She cried out, a sound that was echoed by a hoarse yell nearby and a soft and fluent cursing above her. She felt the rush of a heavy body, heard the muffled thumping and pounding as the rest of the cadre cleared the barrier of the cart.

She was shifted. She drew air into her lungs, then wondered as sickness rushed in upon her if that deep breath had been a mistake. She swallowed hard, then opened her eyes.

She was lying in the arms of the prince, held across his saddlebow. He had swung his mount to view the damage, and she could see the others milling around, soothing their horses, though Michael and one of the twins was helping Estes to his feet. The Italian grimaced at their rough dusting-off of his person and, limping a little, came at once toward Mara and the prince.

"The lady,” he asked, his tone anxious as he stared upward, “she is all right?"

Mara managed a nod. “And ... you, sir?"

"I have in my time been an acrobat. Falling is of no importance, but for you—It was madness for you to try this jump."

"I had no choice.” She closed her eyes, swallowing again as a shudder rippled through her.

"See to your mount,” Roderic said, his voice rough as he spoke to the count.

Then came a clamor behind them as the peasant, recovering, came shouting and blundering among them. They had upset his cart with their aristocratic antics, spilled his cabbages into the mud. He demanded repayment at once.

"Unlettered, unmannered, unwashed, and proud with it,” Roderic said, staring down at him. “The right of way, my friend, does not belong to him who takes it. You are the agent of your own misfortune and that of this lady. Will you press it?"

The threat in the softly spoken words was palpable. The peasant blanched and began to back away muttering excuses. With hands that jerked, he unhooked the horse from the cart, then scrambled onto his back. His fat haunches bounced on the swayback of the animal as he galloped away.

Mara lay still with her eyes tightly shut throughout the exchange. She heard the stirring of the others, the report as her roan was brought back unharmed from where it had stopped running. She knew when Roderic loosened his grasp to look down at her.

"And how are you, in truth?"

She lifted her lashes, gazing up at him. “I am not,” she said as distinctly as she could through set teeth, “going to be sick."

Roderic saw the determination in her eyes and the jut of her pointed chin, saw, too, the shadow of panic that was not for her pain or the danger she had just passed through, but for the fear of humiliation. It caused a tightness in his chest, a peculiar feeling he had never had before, though the full sensation in another part of his body, brought about by her warm and slender form against him, was familiar enough. The glib spate of words that he used so often for weapon and shield deserted him.