Claiming the Forbidden Bride (4 page)

Perhaps that was because there was room there for nothing but pain. And a thirst so profound it was almost worse than the other.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Even in the makeshift field hospitals set up near the lines, someone always brought water to those awaiting treatment. If he could only make them aware of his need…

He dragged leaden eyelids upward again, but more cautiously this time. Through the slits he allowed, he saw that what he had avoided before was a single candle. And that its light was not bright at all.

He turned his head, trying to locate one of the orderlies or even a surgeon. A shard of the previous agony sliced through his skull.

He clenched his lips against the resultant wave of nausea, one so severe it threatened his determination never to move again. Hardly daring to breathe, he willed himself not to be sick.

He tried to think of something—anything—other than the overwhelming urge to vomit. And finally, in his travail,
realized that in the split second his eyes had been open, some still-functioning part of his brain had recognized that, wherever he was, it was like no hospital he'd ever seen.

And like nowhere else he'd ever been.

Curiosity engendered by that realization was almost enough to quell his roiling stomach. His eyelids again opened a slit, and for the third time, he peered out between his lashes.

The light was definitely a candle. It had been pushed into a twisted holder made of some unidentifiable metal, blackened with age or use.

Beyond was a blur of colour, reds and golds predominating. He turned his head another fraction of an inch in an attempt to bring his surroundings into better focus.

The wall opposite where he lay was so close that, if he had had the strength, he could probably have stretched out his arm and touched it. And every inch of it, from floor to ceiling, was crowded with objects.

He allowed his gaze to follow their upward climb, trying to identify what was there. Baskets, woven of vine and stacked full of what appeared to be dried roots. Earthenware crocks, their tops sealed with wax. Glass jars whose contents were indistinguishable, dark and strangely shaped. And sitting incongruously in the middle of what he had now realized were a series of shelves was a rag doll, exactly like those sold in every penny shop in England.

England.

He was no longer in Spain, he knew with a flash of clarity. He hadn't been for months.

If that were true…

He raised his right hand to touch his face. Clean-shaven. Which must mean he'd been here—wherever here was—only a short time.

His gaze came back to the table. A measuring cup and a small medicine bottle stood near its edge.

A memory swam to the surface of his consciousness. A pair of long, slender fingers had poured out a measure of the liquid the bottle contained. Then a hand had slipped behind his head, raising it enough to allow him to swallow the dose. He tried desperately to retrieve the image of the face of the person who had administered the medication, but the only thing he could remember after that was the same searing pain he had experienced a few minutes ago.

He closed his eyes, releasing the breath he'd been holding in a long, slow sigh. Something moved against his leg. He opened his eyes to see what and realized gratefully that the pain in his head was less than before.

A little girl, perhaps four or five, stood beside his bed. Her eyes, the exact colour of the hyacinths that bloomed in his sister-in-law's garden, were surrounded by long, nearly colourless lashes. In contrast, the unbound hair that framed her face seemed almost golden in the candlelight.

When she saw that his eyes were open, the child's mouth rounded into an O of surprise. Clearly his visitor hadn't expected him to be awake. Which made him wonder how many times she'd stood at his bedside as he slept.

‘'Lo.' His voice was little more than a croak, which made him remember his thirst.

The Cupid's bow lips rounded even more. Then the child whirled and disappeared from his sight.

Rhys resisted the urge to follow her movement, remembering what that curiosity might cost him. Instead, he allowed his eyelids to fall once more.

Although there had been no physical activity during this brief period of wakefulness, he was aware of an almost
terrifying sense of fatigue. Maybe he'd been wrong about the fever. Maybe someone had shaved him. Or maybe…

Suddenly, trying to piece together what might have happened became too difficult. And far less important than the sleep that again claimed him.

‘W
ake up,
chavi
.'

At the childhood term of endearment her grandmother still used for her, Nadya opened her eyes to find the old woman bending over the bed. Her first thought was that something had happened to her patient.

‘Is his fever up?'

‘No, no. That one's fine.'

‘Then why aren't you with the
gaujo
? You promised you'd watch him.'

‘Angel is watching him.'

‘Angel?' Nadya struggled to clear the cobwebs from her brain as she sat up. She had no idea how long she'd been asleep. All she knew with any certainty was that it hadn't been nearly long enough. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Stephano's back. I thought you would want to know.'

Although he was the
Rom Baro
, titular head of their
kumpania
, her half-brother had spent most of this year away from camp. And since Nadya had no doubt what his feelings would be about the Englishman she was caring for, to have Stephano unexpectedly show up now,
with her patient on the verge of recovery, seemed the height of irony.

‘Have you told him about the
gaujo
?'

Nadya knew that if Magda hadn't, she soon would. The old woman shared a bond with her grandson stronger even than that between the two of them.

‘He's just arrived. I came to let you know while the others are welcoming him home.'

‘Someone's bound to tell him.'

‘Of course they will,
chavi
. It's his right to be told what has gone on here in his absence.'

‘That should take a while,' Nadya said bitterly.

She flung her covers off and then ran her fingers through her hair as she tried to think. Her reasons for succouring her daughter's rescuer were valid, but Stephano harboured a deep-seated hatred of all
gadje
, especially those belonging to the same social class as his English father.

To Nadya, that made the fact that Stephano chose to live among them rather than with his mother's people more incomprehensible. Of course, her half-brother had been reared as a privileged member of that world for most of his childhood. In her opinion, the bitterness he felt for the
gadje
had far more to do with the interruption of that idyllic existence than did his Romany blood.

‘What are you going to do?' Magda asked as Nadya threw her shawl around her shoulders.

‘See to my patient, who has apparently been left in the charge of a four-year-old.'

Nadya had hoped to return to her own caravan before her half-brother came looking for her, but as she descended the high steps of her grandmother's
vardo
, she saw Stephano coming across the compound. His long stride checked when he spotted her.

‘We need to talk,' he called.

‘Later. I have something important to see to.' Pretending to believe that would satisfy him, she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and continued on her path.

She had no doubt Stephano would follow, but at least this way their confrontation wouldn't be witnessed by the entire camp. As she hurried toward her wagon, head lowered against the bite of the evening wind, she almost ran into her daughter.

Angel grabbed a handful of her skirt, tugging at it imperiously. With one finger she pointed in the direction of the caravan they shared. Then, looking back up to make sure she had her mother's attention, the little girl closed her eyes very tightly and before opening them wide again.

Apparently the Englishman was awake. Just in time to be introduced to her arrogant half-brother, Nadya thought resignedly.

A hand on her shoulder, as demanding as her daughter's had been on her skirts, turned her. The sight of Stephano's furious face drove any other consideration from her mind. Clearly, it hadn't taken as long as she'd hoped for someone to share with him all that had happened while he was away.

Stephano opened his mouth, but Angel's headlong rush toward him postponed whatever invective he'd been prepared to spew. His dark eyes flashed a warning to Nadya that this wasn't the end of it before he bent to pick the little girl up and toss her high into the air. When he caught her, Angel wrapped both arms around his neck, hugging her uncle with delight.

‘Someone's glad to see me.' He looked pointedly at Nadya over her daughter's shoulder.

‘I'm glad to see you. Actually, it's been so long since you've graced us with your presence, I'd almost forgotten what you look like.'

‘Or perhaps you were too busy with other, more pressing concerns to think about me,' he suggested with a mocking smile.

‘We all must be busy with something, I suppose.'

After her lightly veiled reference to Stephano's mysterious affairs, she turned to continue walking toward her caravan, knowing he would follow. And every step he took lessened the odds that the others would overhear his tirade.

Of course, their grandmother had been correct. Stephano had every right to question her actions. Or those of any member of the
kumpania
.

Thus far, however, none of the others had seemed to find anything strange about what she'd been doing. And until the Englishman was well enough to leave, she had wished for nothing more devoutly than to keep it that way.

 

‘Why in God's name would you do this?'

That demanding voice dragged Rhys reluctantly from sleep. He opened his eyes, instinctively searching for whoever had asked that question. Although it seemed he was now able to turn his head without setting off a cataclysm of pain, he couldn't locate the speaker.

‘Because he saved Angel's life,' a woman said. ‘What would you have done?'

The answering shout of laughter was harsh. Full of derision. And clearly male.

Two voices. The feminine one low, almost musical. The other, the derisive one, was different somehow. A difference not only in tone and volume.

Rhys tried to piece together the clues that had led him to that conclusion. Only when he realized the argument he was eavesdropping on concerned him, did he give up that frustrating process.

‘What would I have done? I should have wondered briefly at his motives,' the masculine voice mocked, ‘and then forgotten him.'

‘I don't believe even you are that cynical.'

‘Cynical enough to know that no
gadje
means us well.'

‘He saved my daughter's life.'

‘Angel isn't your daughter.'

‘In every way that matters. Don't judge me by their standards.'

The masculine laughter this time was softer. No longer derisive. ‘You're right. You aren't one of them. But he is. The sooner he's gone, the better for all of us.'

‘What if I tell you he's my guest?' In their culture guests were treated with great courtesy, given the finest food and drink, even if that might be a hardship for the host.

‘I'd say that he's been your guest long enough. I want him away from here.'

‘He isn't well enough—'

‘Then let his own care for him. Get rid of him, Nadya. I mean it.'

‘Yes,
my lord
. Of course,
my lord
.' The feminine voice had now adopted the ripe sarcasm of the other. Her assumed humility dripped with it. ‘What else can I, a poor Gypsy girl, do to please his lordship?'

‘Stop it.' Anger this time, rather than mockery.

‘I don't tell you what you should do, Stephano. You do what you feel you must. I understand that. So remember, please, that I'm not yours to command.'

‘Get rid of him.' The man's voice was deadly quiet. Whatever raillery had been between the two had faded into animosity. ‘Or had you rather I arrange that myself before I leave?' he asked silkily.

‘If you do,' the woman said, ‘you'll be sorry.'

‘Is that a threat,
jel'enedra
?'

‘I don't make threats.
You
of all people should know
that
.'

The silence that followed lasted long enough that Rhys had time to wonder if the quarrelling pair had moved out of earshot.

‘Get rid of him, Nadya,' the man said. ‘Or I'll do it when I return. I don't want that
gaujo
here. And I still have the authority here to see to it that what I want happens.
You
of all people should know
that
.'

 

A slight movement of the surface on which Rhys rested awakened him. Somewhere a door creaked open—a sound he knew he'd heard before. No light came into the room, but a whiff of wood smoke drifted inside before it closed.

Rhys's eyes strained against the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the person who'd entered. The sound of a flint being struck across the room preceded the faint glow of a candle.

He lay perfectly still, waiting for the person who'd lit it to move into his field of vision. As the light came closer, his heart rate increased slightly, driven by curiosity about the owner of the feminine voice he'd heard outside.

Her back to the bed, the woman set the candlestick down on the table where it had rested earlier. Curling black hair, held back by a kerchief, cascaded down her spine. The shawl around her shoulders was intricately patterned, its rich colours glowing faintly in the candlelight.

Finally she turned, reaching out to touch his forehead. Her hand hesitated in mid-air when she realized his eyes were open. As the long seconds ticked by, silently they regarded one another.

The mocking phrase ‘poor Gypsy girl' had prepared
Rhys for much of what he now saw. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the effect of the rest.

A few dusky curls escaped the restraining kerchief to cluster around the perfect oval of her face. Her skin, like the colours of the shawl, was almost luminous in the candle's glow. Only the almond-shaped eyes, as black as her hair, hinted at the ethnic claim she had made during the argument he'd overheard.

Finally she swallowed, the candlelight tracing the movement down the slender column of her throat. ‘You're awake.'

‘I don't know. I think so.'

His meaning was ambiguous, even to him, but the corners of her lips curved upward. Coal-black lashes quickly fell to hide the laughter in her eyes, which she controlled before she looked up at him again.

‘Good.' The hand she had begun to extend completed its journey, resting cool and light against his brow.

Something peculiar happened to Rhys's breathing. The normal functioning of his heart and lungs seemed to hesitate for the first time in the thirty-two years of his existence. After a moment, the Gypsy removed her hand, allowing both to resume their normal rhythm.

‘No fever.' Her pronouncement held a trace of satisfaction, as if she were somehow responsible for that.

He nodded agreement, and then realized he still had no idea why he was here—or even where here was. A dozen questions formed in his brain, but she turned away from the bed before his befuddled mind could frame them.

When she came back, the slim fingers he'd remembered held the medicine cup again. As she had before, she slipped her hand under the back of his head, lifting it enough to allow him to sip the liquid it contained.

The taste was bitter, almost numbing his tongue with its astringency. At least this time that, rather than the agony in his head, was his primary sensation. Relieved, he swallowed the remainder of the potion, realizing only after the fact that she might have been giving him anything.

‘Water?' he requested hoarsely.

‘Of course.'

Again she moved out of his line of sight, giving him a brief respite from emotions that had been running rampant since the moment she'd appeared in front of him. Too long without a woman, his friends would have jeered. Time to think about settling down, his brother would have advised. Smitten, Abigail would have proclaimed smugly, just as she had when he'd obediently fetched punch at a country dance for the prospective bride she'd chosen for him.

Perhaps all of those things were true. Or perhaps his brain was merely addled by the pain in his head or by another attack of fever. Still, whatever had happened in the last few moments had been quite beyond his experience.

Smitten. He had never been completely sure what that term meant. Other than that someone was about to become an object of ridicule to his fellows.

The strange thing was he didn't feel ridiculous at all. What he felt was as alien as his surroundings. Territory as unexplored as any he'd encountered during the long years he'd spent in Iberia.

‘Here.'

He lifted his eyes to find the girl leaning over his bed again. Once more she slipped her hand beneath his head, raising it as she placed a horn cup against his lips. He swallowed gratefully, the coolness of the water relieving the seemingly constant dryness of his throat.

As he drank, he was aware of her closeness. A strand of midnight hair had fallen over her shoulder to rest against his pillow. It smelled of sunshine.

She lowered the rim of the cup when he'd finished all it contained. ‘Enough?'

He nodded. ‘Thank you.'

‘How are you feeling?'

‘Disoriented,' he answered truthfully. ‘Where are we?'

There was a moment's hesitation. ‘You're in my home. Which at the moment happens to be in the middle of Harpsden Wood.'

‘At the moment?'

‘I fear you've fallen among the Rom, my lord. My home is on wheels.'

Fallen among the Rom…

Which made it sound as if he'd come here through some misadventure. Try as he might, he couldn't remember what that could have been.

‘Had I been overcome by fever?'

‘And a blow to the head.' With her thumb she touched a place on his temple, causing him to flinch.

The movement was too sudden, setting off the now-familiar peal of anvils against his skull. He closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was endure until the pain and the nausea had faded.