When Lightning Strikes (5 page)

“Call me Dominic.”

“Dominic, I really didn’t mean to offend you about smelling like a skunk…polecat. It’s just…well…I thought you might not get to take a bath very often.” Her eyes took on a look of the compassion she honestly felt. These were rough times, after all.

He saw the look of emotion come into her eyes. Ah, yes.
Pity.
He understood now. She regarded him as filth, just like all the others of her kind. He had been hoping that maybe she wouldn’t be the shrew he had expected but he was now realizing that he was most certainly wrong and she was making it quite clear to remind him that she was well above him in social stature. His expression became serious and he cleared his throat before speaking.

“I am Romany…a Gypsien as your kind have so named us
and as you well know, we do not have the luxuries you are accustomed to. We must make our way as we can or die."

Sarah opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself as his look hardened.

"I know what you think of me. You think me a thief or a highwayman, and perhaps you are right. But I must also tell that unlike the many of your kind, who have no care from whence they line their purses, we do not take from those who cannot afford the loss. We are responsible for our actions, at least, and know that we may well burn in Hell for them. I suppose it can be no worse there than it is here at times."

He looked away from her.

"Dominic, I meant no offense to you. Really."

"Oh, but you did, demoiselle. A ‘Gypsy’ I may be, but a fool I am not.”

Dominic paused a moment and raked back a few stubborn locks of his hair from his handsome face.

"And as for my bathing habits, despite what you have heard or what you may believe, my lady, we are clean and well-kept as we are able to be. Yestereve we worked, unlike most of your kind. There is a lake not far from here, but the weather was quite foul and I had no chance to bathe; not to mention the fact I was caught out in the rain, which does not make one’s garments smell any less than rancid."

With a bitter smirk he quickly added, "You on the other hand are an Englishwoman and it is a well-known fact that the English are quite notorious for their
penchant
for not washing. Most unfortunately the foul habit has spread across most of the conquered world. I should think any bodily odors or even being louse-ridden would not have much of an effect upon you. I must admit, though, you do not smell as sour as most of the English, including the wealthy and titled! No, my lady, you smelled quite sweet lying in my arms all night. Like flowers.”

He smirked anew, gleefully this time, bringing that devastating dimple to his right cheek and again raising one if his perfect black eyebrows with practiced precision.

“
Does he rehearse that look in the mirror?”
she thought to herself as she seethed at his statement, although she had nothing to be offended at…and not likely he owned a mirror.

On second thought, she supposed he had complimented her, if anything, on the fact that she smelled good. But, it was the intimacy of his words and his cocky attitude that bothered her. He enjoyed reminding her that she had spent the night with him even if it was only sleeping. He was the exact kind of man she had warned her mother about last night. A full-of-himself, swaggering, horse’s ass!

But, she supposed she deserved his slightly nasty remarks just a little. She could tell she had offended him by calling him a Gypsy, a term which was derogatory and inaccurate.

In modern times the term was loosely used even by some of the Romany themselves and so it didn’t matter so much. But here, especially in the midst of these people it most certainly did. It was an alteration of the word ‘Egypcien’, because the Romany
were originally thought to be from Egypt. The word was associated with the belief that they were thieves, highwaymen and vagrants traveling from place to place trying to swindle people out their gold with their fortune-telling and selling of less than quality merchandise. Thus, the modern expression of ‘gypping’ someone in a less than honest transaction of some kind.

In actual truth, most Romany kept completely to
themselves and tried to avoid outsiders at all costs. Many were incredibly gifted artisans, musicians, acrobats and dancers. But, unfortunately there were some who did live up to the reputation that preceded them, as it was the only way they had to survive in these crude times. It was sad, but this was not the twentieth century with all of her creature comforts.

She wished in that moment she could reveal to him her own Romany heritage and to somehow let him know that she understood their plight, but her safety depended upon her silence.

Her mind snapped back to the task at hand. Staying alive and playing her part. What would an English damsel do in a moment like this? His last statement was meant to hit her where it hurt. And her extended silence had no doubt left him certain that he had the upper hand. He’d better think again.

She smirked inwardly and feigned indignation. “I will have you know, sir, that I bathe every single day and I am well aware of the fact that I smell like the rose water that I am accustomed to soaking in. And as for this talk of being a highwayman or a vagrant, those are
your
words, not mine.”

“So there!”
she thought. At least her outrage over his petty statements would sound genuine like those of a true English damsel and he would continue to believe her to be a noblewoman. She had even tried to sound as English as possible and a little gracious too. And the part about the rose water wasn’t bad either, if she did say so herself!

“Enough,” he suddenly said. “We will speak of this no more. I have some venison stew boiling outside and if you are well enough, I will bring you some. Do you wish to eat?"

Sarah nodded vigorously as her stomach began growling.

“I would call you by your given name, if you would be so kind as to offer it. I have told you my own and I wish to know yours.”

“It is Sarah,” she said, remembering this time not to use the contraction ‘it’s’.

His expression softened a little and he nodded. “
Sarah.
Very pretty like you. Very well then, Sarah, I will go and fetch some stew and something to slake your thirst whilst you wait for me here. I must warn you to heed me well because your disobedience could mean your death or worse. We will speak more of who you are and from whence you came when I return.”

She nodded before he turned and left through the part in the canvas.

Dominic stepped out over the edge of the wagon and headed back across camp to get some stew for the woman. He was becoming increasingly agitated because he knew that the orders he had issued to her were more than true.

The others in the troupe would soon be asking questions. Up until this moment, he had told them that she was still asleep and had only briefly come out of her unconsciousness. The women would not be a problem. Perhaps Shaia and Fala
would be jealous since he had bedded both on more than one occasion, and they would assume he had taken advantage of the woman lying with him in the wagon, but it would be of no consequence. Oh, they would probably harass her a bit because she was English, noble and beautiful, but it would go no further than that.

Marco, the troupe’s lute player and his most trusted friend, would not injure the woman and would, in fact, protect her as he himself would. Marco and he had been raised like brothers since they were youths. Their mothers had been the closest of friends and had agreed that should one or the other of them die unexpectedly, the other would raise and care for their sons as their own. He knew with utter certainty that just as Marco stood by him in all things, he would stand by him in this as well.

But at least one or two of the younger men would be like hot-blooded bulls in rut. He was going to have to find the right moment to inform all of them that she was awake and well. Then the challenge would be to keep the more ornery ones from trying to bed her. Especially once they had laid their eyes on her and saw just how beautiful she was. It had been a long, cold winter here in Northern France. Their travels had been limited and they desperately needed the gold that her ransom would bring.

"Nico!"
He was jolted abruptly from his train of thought by one of the men. He groaned aloud as Jean-Paul approached him

"Nico, ami
,  I see you have emerged from your liaison! This gadge femme has kept you occupied for the vast part of this day. She must be quite...”

Dominic cut off his words. "She is quite...ill," he lied. “Not to mention the fact that she has been made half daft from the strike of lightning. She is resting still, but has awakened and requires food and water."

"Ill? I find this hard to believe that you would be wasting your time nursing a sick female, much less a gadge noble! Of course, I would be more than willing to take this woman food and drink if she is becoming bothersome to you," he replied with a smile that was too innocent looking.

"That will not be necessary. She is going to need rest and little intrusion if she is to recover so she can be ransomed to her people. And she must not be compromised."

"And does this woman find your intrusions to be compromising?"

"NO, she does not. Now be gone from my sight, and do NOT let me find you lingering about my wagon offering your
services
to Sarah."

Jean-Paul raised an eyebrow. "Sarah is it? Well, it seems that she is not daft enough to have forgotten her name. And it seems you are comfortable with referring to her with such familiarity. Perhaps she would allow me to call her by her name as well! And of course, I would have no aversion to hearing her speak my own…loudly." His smile was wolf-like.

"I have had enough of you, whelp. Now begone while I am still in such a mood as to say it in a good-natured manner."

"As you wish.”
Jean-Paul turned on his heel and marched away whistling a merry tune as he walked and Dominic knew he was far from finished with keeping him away from the woman. And that was only the beginning of it. The others would be tormenting him soon enough as well.

He headed over to a small fire that burned close by where some fresh stew was simmering, grabbing two bowls and ladling some of the thick, meaty stew into them. He was about to snatch up two spoons when a feminine hand reached forth, holding them out to him.

It was Fala. Would the torture never cease? He was tired. He was hungry. He was kicking himself in his own derriere right now for bringing the English witch to camp. He'd known she would bring him trouble from the moment he laid eyes on her. He rolled his eyes and groaned audibly.

"Nico, you look troubled love. I can ease your mind and other parts as well if you come to me this night." She smiled seductively and ran two long fingernails down his muscular shoulder and arm.

"Fala, I am too weary. I have not slept well for two nights. I have many duties to look after and a sick woman to tend to who will bring us much gold if we can find her people. I would rather wait until some other night to come to you," he said flatly.

Fala eyed him warily. He could tell she didn't believe a word he was saying. Ah, but the jealous witches were all alike, no matter if they be English, Celtic, Persian or Romany.

Fala handed him the spoons and moved away and he could see the look of resentment in her eyes. Christ, she thought she owned him. Of course she didn't seem to mind sharing her attentions when it was her sister Shaia who was helping her to ‘ease his troubled mind.’

He smiled at the memory of the two of them with their lush curves and skilled hands. But now, when she sensed there might be competition from an outsider, she simmered like a pot of oil. The kind they poured down on one's head from the turrets during the raiding of a castle.

Well...he'd dodged a few of those in his day, in truth. He supposed that he could dodge any of Fala's caustic remarks that would come. And of course, Shaia would be happy to join in nagging him when her sister informed her of his lack of interest this night. He would have chuckled to himself, had the situation of finding the woman's family been any less than serious.

For now, his thoughts were only of getting back to the comfort of his wagon, feeding the woman and finding out who in God's name were her family so he could send one of his men out to locate them and offer her to them for gold.

He cursed himself silently as he tripped on a rock walking back to the wagon, but his expression immediately softened when he parted the canvas and saw Sarah standing there with her back facing him, completely unaware of his presence.

She was facing the front of the wagon and was bent over straightening the rumpled pallet on the floor. The crisp white shirt she wore was long, but not
long enough giving him the most delectable and unrestricted view of her saucy derriere. By the Gods in Heaven, she was enough to steal a man's senses away! And that shirt -
his
shirt - looked most fetching on her. He hadn't quite noticed before when he first saw her in it, but now the thought of her wearing something that belonged to him heated the blood in his veins.

She stretched forward with a graceful motion. Her legs were long and silky and that behind of hers was tight and smooth. He sucked in an audible breath, almost dropping the bowls that he carried as the image of running his hands and lips down the soft flesh of those legs flashed through his wayward mind.