Taming Her Gypsy Lover (4 page)

“And I told you, I do not need more. Nor should you need a mirror, to know that you are pretty. If you doubt, then ask me. And I will tell you how beautiful you are.” His voice was sharp, amused, scolding. But the look in his eyes was soft and warm, as though he wished to say much more.

And yet, he stopped speaking before revealing anything of importance. It was as if he thought he could control her with the silence. Perhaps, if she were married to him, she might have permitted such games, and yielded to his judgment as a matter of course. But not yet. Not so soon.

Emma tossed her head, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. “If I must ask before I receive a compliment, then clearly, I am not pretty enough to hold your attention. You will think me foolish and vain, I suppose. But that is neither here nor there. First, I lost my husband. Then I surrendered my freedom, to appease my family. Do not think that my running away with you means I will give up my pride as well, and submit without question to your stubbornness. I wish to comb my hair. You speak the language of your people and I do not.” She reached into her pocket and tossed one of her remaining buttons onto the mattress beside him. “Please take this, and buy me a mirror.”

Without another word, he did up his breeches, dropped the button into his pocket and left her alone in the tent.

Chal went to the stream to get fresh water, stripped off shoes and shirt and waded into the shallows to splash some temperance into his hot blood.

She had been right, though he did not want to admit it. A mirror was a useful item and he had been frustrated by the lack of one each time he shaved. It had been no big thing to barter for one.

He had seen her leave the tent as he’d talked with another Rom by the fire, and now Chal was dawdling in the water until he was sure she’d returned to where he’d left her, not wishing to show the
gadji
that she had any control over his comings and goings. He leaned forward and dunked his head below the surface, loving the icy chill of it. He rose, shaking droplets from his skin and hair, and thanked God that his response to her lovemaking had been in Romany so that she could not understand it. In his own tongue, he had told her too much of the truth: that he loved her and wanted her. He had begged her not to stop, never to leave. And when she had finished with him, the emptiness that he’d carried with him for almost a year had been filled with thoughts of their future.

And all this after little more than a day together. He was allowing himself to want too much, and too feel too deeply for a woman who had no intention of staying with him. He had not realized how alone he had been, since Bella had died. Perhaps, if he had availed himself of a whore, this fire in him would not be raging so now.

Or it could have been just the same. For he suspected there was no other woman in the world so perfect for him as Emma Hammond, nor would she find a better man than him. She’d blossomed like a rose the further he took her from London. She belonged in the country, and on the open road, wild and reckless, and happy. And he needed a mother for his children, and someone to laugh and talk with, to make the hours pass.

The thing she had done just now, in the tent, had driven him near to madness. And in the storm. And in the garden. He needed more of that as well.

Chal shook off the last of the water, pulled the shirt back over his head and filled the bucket he’d brought with him. Then he walked back to his tent, keeping an even pace so as not to spill the water.

When he drew back the flap, Emma looked up at him from where she sat upon the bed. She had been to the field and gathered flowers. Daisies and buttercups and cornflowers sprinkled her skirt, as she twined the stems to make a garland, and draped it at the head of the bed they would share. “You do not mind this, do you?”

His throat tightened. “No. It is fine.”

“Because I thought it would look rather cheerful.” She looked down at the flowers in her hands.

“And I brought you your mirror.” He set the bucket at the doorway of the tent, and pulled the small piece of glass from his pocket. “It is not much, of course. But all that could be had in this camp. Perhaps when we are passing through the next town…”

“I am sure it will be fine,” she answered. “I do not need much.”

“And it is yours,” he reminded her. “You can take it with you.”

“Take it?” She seemed surprised.

Why had he mentioned parting? It was not as if he wished to think on it. “When we arrive in Yorkshire. I assumed you had some plan, once we find the boy.”

She frowned down at the flowers. “I do not know. At one time, I had thought to travel back to London, so that Amanda could say her farewell.” Emma looked up at him and then down again. “But now that I have met you and your people?” She shrugged. “I think it would be better if he remained with you. I will write to his mother. To Amanda,” she corrected, acknowledging the difference. “And explain to her.”

It was all of surprisingly little interest to him. “But what do you mean to do with yourself?”

She sighed. “I am not sure. I suppose I shall sell the jewels and set up housekeeping somewhere. If I live frugally, there will be enough money.” She looked at him with sorrow. “If word of what I have done with you becomes known, I shall become infamous for my behavior. But the time I have spent with you? Please remember it with kindness. For it was not as it must appear to you.” And then she fell silent again, and looked away.

What was she trying to tell him? Probably that it would soon be over, and that the affection she had shown was nothing more than expedience on her part. And that while she wished it to be a sweet memory, it could be no more than that. Whatever her future held, it did not include a Gypsy lover.

In the weeks since they’d left the Gypsy camp, Chal had spoken less and less. While the silence seemed tense, it was probably just as well. She had no idea what to say to him.

When they stopped from their travels, they seemed to have no need for words. If it was cool, she would help him pitch the tent. If it was warm or they were tired, they might lie on the mattress in the wagon, or set the bed up under the stars.

And they would make love for as long as they were able, before falling into a happily exhausted sleep. While they were in each other’s arms, he would tell her of her beauty and her sweetness, and that he could not live without her. But in the morning, when they sat side by side on the wagon seat, he would say nothing at all.

And certainly not the words Emma was longing to hear. He was not likely to make a conventional offer to some
gadji
he had just met, after all. If that was the way Gypsies behaved. She was not sure, and was afraid to ask. There must be some form of courtship, some permanent bond between couples. But she doubted the precursor to it was a brief liaison with a stranger.

Her stomach felt sour when she remembered how she had behaved in the first days, trying to coax him into an admission of love, leaving the contents of her heart open to him, thinking he must feel the same.

But her hints at what she’d felt for him had fallen on deaf ears. He had used her. And she had let him, for it felt wonderful to lie with him, pleasing him and being pleasured.

The journey had taken much longer than it might have, had she traveled on the regular coaching routes, with inns and frequent changes of horses. When she’d asked about the lack of speed, Chal had said gruffly that he was but one man, and his horse was but one horse. The roads were difficult, and it would take as long as it would take. And then, in the evening, he had taken her to bed again, and she had wondered if he was delaying in order to have more nights together. But now that their journey was almost over, he did not care what happened to her.

Finally, they had passed the last village before their destination, and she could see the outline of the foundling hospital on the horizon.

“Oh, dear God.” She had not known, when Lord Callandar had made the first idle threats about sending the boy away, what it would truly mean to him. This place, now that they had found it, was farther away from the comfort and luxury of London than she could imagine. The moors had been bleak enough, with their bogs and desolation. But the building on the road before them was a cheerless hulk of gray stone that did not strike her as a fit habitation for men, much less children. It reminded her of a prison.

Then the first whiff of acrid smoke hit her nostrils. And she could see, amid the gloom of the overcast day, something darker and more foreboding. Chal could sense it as well, for he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as though, after all this time, he did not wish to finish their journey.

They were close enough to see the truth. The building that had seemed malevolent from a distance was little more than a burned out shell, a pile of charred timbers and cold stones darkened by soot. There were only a few dirty puddles of water left to show that someone had tried without success to douse the flames. Chal stopped the wagon, tying the horse to a nearby tree, and they went the rest of the way on foot, into an atmosphere still heavy with the smoke from burning wood, and the sickly sweet smell of death.

They slowed as they approached, for people were crowded thick around the ruins of the building that had been the St. John’s Home for Orphans and Foundlings, clearing rubble and picking through it for items of value. Even the normally raucous scavengers were hushed by what was before them.

Emma gagged and raised a handkerchief to her nose to try and block the scent. Chal put a hand on her shoulder, signaling her to wait, then pushed his way through the crowd, questioning those nearest, looking for someone with enough authority to tell him what had happened to the inmates.

“Make way. I am on important business for Lord Callandar.” From behind her, Emma heard the familiar voice of Geoffrey Burton, and she felt the little knot of spectators shift as a man pushed his way to the front.

She cringed, dreading to think what her erstwhile betrothed would do when he saw her here. Most like, he would carry the news back to his employer, and remove any hope of her returning to family. She glanced around for somewhere to conceal herself. But he was only a few steps away, and it was too late to prevent discovery.

For the moment, he had eyes only for the wreck before them, taking a bit of snuff to block the smell from his nostrils. He gave a sneeze, and then accosted the man beside them. “You, sir. Do you know? Were there survivors?”

“Damn few,” the man muttered back. “What children they could find have been taken in by the vicar. His wife will treat them, until their burns have healed.”

Geoffrey gripped the man’s arm, shaking him as though he could dislodge the truth. “Was there a Gypsy boy in that lot? Do you know?”

The man laughed. “And what would the likes of that have been doing here, instead of with his people? Say what you like about them, they take care of their own.”

“But did you see a dark boy, about so high?” Geoffrey held out his hand.

The man glared at him. “What children they found were white-skinned, under the ash and the burns. If you care so much, go to the church and see them.” The man glanced at the fine cloth of Geoffrey’s coat. “Perhaps you could take one home with you.” He gestured toward the burned building. “For you can see what happens to them without friends or family.”

Geoffrey sniffed and took another pinch of snuff. “Certainly not.”

“Please.” Emma could not help speaking out, and reached to touch his sleeve. For the man was right. Geoffrey had more than enough wealth to take care of as many wards as he might like. And his house was empty. Even to bring someone home for Amanda, another child to take the place of Stephen…

Geoffrey glared coldly down at her, eyes empty of recognition, and yanked his arm from her grasp. “Get off me, you filthy beggar.”

For a moment, her mind went utterly blank at his response. Cruel though he had seemed to her, she had at least expected he would temper his dislike of her to curry favor with Lord Callandar. But this current malice was without form or thought, just a taste of the general hatred he had for everyone in the world he deemed different, or inferior.

He did not look at the woman who stood before him at all. He saw only the plain gown and colorful scarf of a Gypsy, the lack of powder on her face, the undressed hair. And he dismissed her as unimportant, unfamiliar and far beneath notice.

Rather than the familiar sting of rejection that she had expected, Emma felt the command to leave as a final call of liberation. “Of course, sir. If you truly wish it.” She said it slowly and plainly, in a voice that he should recognize. Giving him one last chance.

He raised his hand as if to cuff her, in a way he never would while visiting Mount Street. “Be off with you, whore.”

“As you wish.” She turned away from him, pushing into the crowd after Chal. When she found him, she slipped her arm into his.

He looked down at her and smiled absently, squeezing her hand before turning back to the grim sight before him. “They took survivors to a church. But no one knew of Stephano.”

“We will look for him there,” she said.

“And if we do not find him?” Chal’s face darkened. “And I fear we will not. No one can tell me what has become of him.”

Looking at the ruins before her, Emma tried not to think about how the end had been for the boy. “Then what will you do next?”

“Continue to look, I suppose. If there is some proof of his fate, I must bring it back to his family. They will want to know.” Chal gazed at the ruins, as though there was a way to see the fate of the inhabitants, and then back at her. “Do you wish me to return you to your people with the news?” But as he said it, he held her hand tighter.

Emma shook her head. “They will discover it soon enough, I fear. I will write to Amanda, though I hate to pass on bad news, given her fragile state. Still, it is better that she hears it from me and not Geoffrey. He has come up from London to investigate for Lord Callandar.”

“Burton.” Chal spat the word like a curse, and then added a string of Romany that Emma was glad she could not translate. “Do you wish to speak to him?”

“I have already done so.” She smiled. “He did not know me.”

“Even when you were right in front of him, he did not know you?” Chal was holding both her hands now, so tight that her fingers hurt. “But I do.”

“And I know you.” She squeezed back until their grip was an unbreakable bond. “I am free of Geoffrey now, if I was not already. My life is my own. What do you wish me to do with it?” She caught Chal’s eyes at last, and held them, looking in daylight for the love that he had shown her in darkness.

“Come with me.” He said it suddenly. Shyly. As though he feared rejection as much as she did. “Please, Emma.” He raised her hands to his lips, and although he was still somber, there was a trace of the roguish smile she had seen before.

“And if I do, what will become of me?”

“I will keep you, of course. I will take you as my own.” He grinned at her now. “Burton was rich. But he didn’t know the value of what he had. I have little. But I take care with what is my own.” Chal pulled her close and kissed her, and she noticed yet again how wonderful his kisses were. Rough, yet tender. And each kiss was different, as though the man who gave them treasured each moment and wished to celebrate it. For when the time passed it would never come again. And then he said, in a voice hoarse with emotion, “Be mine. Travel with me. Share my tent. Share my bed. Join my family. Let me love you till my dying breath.”

“Yes. Take me with you. Again.” And she knew that she had answered him truly, and right. For in that moment, her future became certain, and she was flooded with profound relief. She let her body fall into his, in an embrace so close that people near them tutted in disapproval at the wild Gypsy lovers.