Claiming the Forbidden Bride

Alone again, Rhys raised his eyes to the opening at the end of the caravan. The beech leaves were molten gold in the morning sun. As they swayed in the wind, they cast dappled patterns of light and shade onto the walls of the caravan, reminding him of the countryside he’d ridden through after he’d left Buxton. And, he realized, that was the last thing he did remember.

I fear you’ve fallen among the Rom, the woman had told him. But she’d given him no explanation of how that had occurred. Or of how he’d been injured.

No matter how hard he tried, searching his memory for answers, he could remember almost nothing after he left the inn. All he knew was that he’d been thoroughly enjoying his first taste of freedom since he’d returned to England.

It was possible he’d been attacked by robbers. If so, he had no memory of it. Still, being set upon by highwaymen would explain the blow to the head, so that version of events seemed logical. Whether the Gypsies had been his attackers or his rescuers, however—

‘Angel said you were awake. How do you feel?’

The woman who’d given him the medicine last night was back. Today the kerchief had been replaced by two gold combs, which glittered among her midnight curls as if bejewelled.

The shawl that had covered her shoulders had also disappeared. The cap-sleeved blouse she wore would offer little protection against the morning’s chill, but the white fabric flattered the smooth tan of her shoulders.

Despite its décolleté, something he was suddenly extremely aware of, the garment was no more revealing than the gowns he’d seen at the country party his sister-in-law had dragged him to. Merely the fashion, he told himself. Still, he hadn’t reacted to those rounded white shoulders in quite the same way his body was responding to these.

‘Angel?’ The question was a form of self-defence, since he was certain of the source of her information.

‘Her name’s Angeline, but… ‘The woman shrugged, the movement again drawing his eyes to the beginning curve of her breasts, visible above the low neckline.

Rhys raised his eyes, smiling into hers. ‘I’m afraid she wasn’t very pleased with me.’

‘Really? She seemed excited you’re awake.’

‘She kept doing something with her fingers. I think she expected me to be able to figure out what it was, but.’ He shook his head.

‘Can you show me?’

Feeling foolish for having brought it up, Rhys repeated the gesture the child had made.

The woman laughed. ‘She wanted you to come with her. And since she is, I’m afraid, too accustomed to having her own way, I’m sure she thought you wouldn’t hesitate to oblige.’

‘I should have tried. If she’d told me what she wanted.’

‘Angel doesn’t speak. Nor does she hear what we say.’

‘She’s deaf,’ Rhys spoke the sudden realization aloud, and then wondered at his own stupidity in not understanding the situation sooner. ‘Forgive me. You must think me very slow.’

‘I think you’ve had a severe blow to the head. It’s to be expected that things seem strange. As all of thiscertainly must.’ One slender hand gestured at their surroundings.

‘You said last night I’d “fallen in” with your people. I’m afraid I can’t remember how that happened.’

Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Nothing?’

‘Very little beyond setting out from the inn at Buxton. I assume that was yesterday morning. Unless, that is, I’ve enjoyed your hospitality longer than I’m aware.’ His voice rose questioningly on the last.

‘Then…you don’t remember Angel at all?’

‘She was here once before when I woke up. That must have been…last night?’

‘Do you remember being brought here?’

‘I thought—’ Rhys hesitated, for some reason reluctant to confess that during that journey he had imagined he was back in Spain.’Perhaps,’he amended.’Parts of it.’

Even as he said that, it seemed he did remember. They’d put him on a cart of some kind. And the ground they’d pulled the conveyance over had been very uneven.

Rough enough, he thought with an unexpected clarity, that he’d been more than willing to sink back into the unconsciousness their painful ministrations had pulled him from.

‘What about my horse?’Another memory that had suddenly risen to the surface of his consciousness.

‘A gelded bay with a star on his forehead?’

‘That’s it. He’s my brother’s, actually. I should hate to lose him.’

Rhys had had several mounts shot out from under him in Iberia. More than enough to teach him not to become attached to any of them. Still the bay had been responsive, seeming as pleased with the freedom of their journey as Rhys had been.

‘One of the men found him this morning. Don’t worry. He’ll be ready for you when you’re well enough to ride.’

‘When do you think that will be?’ Right now, he couldn’t imagine sitting on a horse, but given the crowded conditions of her “home,” he also couldn’t imagine imposing on her any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘I’m a healer, not a fortune-teller, my lord,’ she said with a smile. ‘I can send for my grandmother if you’d like to make inquiries about your future.’

‘I’m no lord.’ Rhys wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important that she understand that.

‘All English gentlemen are lords to us.’ The smile tugged at the corners of her lips again. ‘We discovered long ago that a little flattery goes a long way. Especially when your livelihood depends upon the goodwill of those with whom you conduct business.’

‘And what kind of business do you conduct?’

Her chin tilted upward fractionally. ‘Assuredly not the kind you’re thinking of. As I told you, I have some small skill with herbs and potions. I can set bones and sew flesh so that the limbs involved are still usable. My grandmother can tell you what your future holds, ifyou’re foolish enough to desire that information. As for the others.’ She made that expressive movement with her shoulders again.’We’re blacksmiths, tinkers, leather workers, basket weavers, woodworkers. Craftsmen of all kinds. And we buy and sell all manner of things.’

The Rom were known for all those things. And for many others as well. For centuries every type of roguery—from cheating at games of chance to stealing children from their beds—had been laid at their door.

With that thought, the image of the little girl’s wide blue eyes surrounded by colourless lashes was in his mind’s eye. How did a child like Angeline come to be in a Gypsy camp? Rhys didn’t believe for a moment that Angel was her daughter.

That was, however, a subject he couldn’t afford to pursue. Not while he was flat on his back and at the mercy of these people. At least one of whom very much wanted him gone.

He wondered what this woman’s relationship was with the man who’d ordered her to get him out of camp. Was he the tribal leader? Her father? Husband? Lover?

The last two choices were more distasteful to him than they should be. Despite his attraction to her, the worlds they occupied were separated by an abyss of custom and prejudice. The Gypsy had taken care of him, for which he would always be grateful. As for the other.

The sooner he could leave, the better it would befor all concerned. The woman who had tended to him could once more have her home back. Whoever had demanded she get rid of him would be satisfied. And more important, Rhys would be on his way once more to his godfather’s house.

With the memory of his journey’s purpose, he realized that unless he sent word to Keddinton that he’d been delayed, his godfather was apt to sound the alarm, which would send Edward rushing into the countryside to find him. It was lucky he hadn’t been more exact in his letter about the date of his arrival. Perhaps if he sent Keddinton a message now, he could forestall the humiliation of his family’s search.

‘Some of you have occasion to travel outside this camp?’

‘Of course,’ Despite her ready agreement, the woman seemed puzzled by his question.

‘I was hoping someone could take a letter to my godfather, Viscount Keddinton. His home is Warrenford Park. NearWargrave. He’s expecting me. If I don’t show up there soon, he may institute a hue and cry.’