Gypsy Bond

STEEL MAGNOLIA PRESS

Copyright © 2012 by Delinda Corbin No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law. Cover design by www.hotdamndesigns.com.

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~ Chapter 1 ~ Derbyshire England, 1823 The man emerged from the deep shadows cast by the oak tree that marked the far edge of the farmed lands and stepped into the path directly in front of Juliet. Her loud gasp was made more conspicuous by the man’s silence. She had expected a guard, but had forgotten how skilled they could be at blending into the gloom. She spoke the secret password to the sentry, hating that her voice shook. He seemed to still in surprise before he glided closer, little more than a suggestion of darker shadow in the faint light cast by the sliver of an upturned moon. “How would a gadji such as you know this word?” Gadji, the Romany term for a non-gypsy woman. The gossip her maid had heard in the village was true. The gypsy tribe her father had welcomed in the years before his death had returned at last. Juliet’s pulse beat hard against her throat. Impatience lent strength to her tone. “That is none of your business. Let me pass.” “As you will.” The man whistled through his teeth, a short sharp sound remarkably like a bird’s cry, then melted back into the darkness. Juliet followed, gathering her skirt in the front so that she could lengthen her stride to keep pace. Her gaze was

fixed on the man’s back and the occasional glint of light off his silver earring as he glanced behind at her. They were alone in the darkness, kept company only by the rustlings of small animals and the odor of decaying leaves. This land had been in her family for generations, and she knew nothing lay ahead but the ancient forest and the secrets that it hid in the arms of the gnarled oak trees. She should have been frightened, but the euphoria of anticipation was rising, blocking more sane emotions. The speed with which the man moved warmed her muscles and she began to regret wearing her heaviest cloak. It had been chosen for its dark color more than for protection against the chill on this mild spring night. At a fork in the path the gypsy turned right toward the lake, formed years ago when beaver dammed a section of the creek. The trail narrowed, the tree limbs hanging so low that Juliet had to bend to avoid catching her upswept hair in the leaves. Each twisting turn had been well known to her as a child, but in the dark, tree roots sought to trip her and briars tugged at her skirts. She saw a flicker of light through the trees and heard muted voices and the twang of some stringed instrument. To her right, there was the stamp and snort of horses, tethered for the night. They emerged from the trees into the bright light of the gypsy camp. She was expected. The whistle had surely been a signal, but there was likely a second sentry who had run ahead to warn the camp of the intruder. People turned toward her, their faces burnished to gleaming copper by the firelight. Children were quieted and held fast in their mothers’ arms. Dogs barked, but were shushed with a bone from the remnants of

supper cooked on the spit over the fire. Juliet caught the tang of burning oak and the drifting scent of roasting meat, reminding her that she’d been too nervous to partake of dinner. It was well that someone enjoyed the abundant venison to be found in the park, she thought with wry amusement. Her father had loved sport, often hunting with hounds, but her brother preferred lessvigorous pursuits and sent a servant to purchase their meat from the butcher in the village. A man with grizzled gray hair separated himself from those gathered around the fire and stepped toward her, his bow respectful. “Miss Bailey, welcome.” “Luca?” She had wondered what she would do if this was not the same tribe who had visited in years past, but Luca’s presence reassured her. The older man was a horse trainer, often found at their stables when his band was camped nearby. He’d trained the horse she rode still, her favorite mare Abigail. He straightened, standing tall and proud. “It is kind of you to remember my name. I’m sure it is your kindness as well that has allowed us to camp here again.” He evidently remembered her brother and knew that James was not enamored of the gypsy lifestyle. “It has been too long, my friend,” she said. “I find you in good health?” If he was surprised by the warmth of her greeting, he hid it well. He inclined his head. “As with the march of the seasons, I persevere. Come by the fire,” he urged. “My daughter will bring wine.” “Thank you for the offer, but I am here on an urgent errand.” Accepting their hospitality meant a delay, one that might cause her to lose courage. Luca shot her a sharp look, but turned to lead her

deeper into the camp. The men behind him parted to allow her to make her way to the roaring blaze. The flickering light played across the brightly painted reds and blues of the wooden vardos that encompassed the camp in their protective semi-circle. Her gaze caught a glint of stained glass on the larger, more ornate wagons, and she turned an appraising eye on the coins worn by the women on belts around their waists or woven into their hair. The group had grown prosperous. Rumors circulated that some tribes kidnapped the children of wealthy families and ransomed them, but this one had always been honest and hardworking, often arriving in time to help with the sowing of the fields. She hoped that was still the case. Catching the gaze of a young woman with a red kerchief across her hair and a baby on her lap, she realized that she was being appraised with as much distrust as she had briefly felt. Her face flared and she turned away from the woman, her gaze seeking out the friendlier features of Luca. “How may we serve you, Miss Bailey?” Panic rose up, closing her throat. She’d acted out this moment in her mind a thousand times. Now, those carefully chosen words deserted her. As the silence stretched, she heard the shuffle as someone moved on the piles of rugs on which they sat and a child’s cough as the wind shifted and the smoke from the blaze drifted across the camp. For a moment, it seemed as surreal as the dream she’d had so many times. She shook her head to clear it. There was nothing left for her at home. These people were her future. Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ve come to demand my rightful place beside my husband.” The noises of the camp quieted as if the occupants

had taken one collective breath, then a young man laughed and called out, “There are no princes on white horses here. Look elsewhere for your mate.” The red in her cheeks burned as if the heat of the fire had jumped to her face, but she refused to accept such easy defeat. “Four years ago, when your tribe was last here, I jumped the Springfire with one of your own.” A murmur of speculation chased across the circle and she felt a moment’s satisfaction. “Name this person,” demanded an aged woman who sat high on a pile of rugs. Wrinkled and gray, she looked to Juliet like the witch in the book of fairy tales her nurse had read to her as a child. Juliet swallowed hard and searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face, someone who would remember that ni ght. Looking for her husband. Alarm tightened her muscles as she realized he might no longer travel with the tribe. The wind freshened, making the fire dance and shadows pass so quickly across the other faces that they became distorted. In desperation, she blurted out the name. “Marko Lovel.” “Lies,” she heard someone mutter. On the farthest edge of the fire, nearly out of the light of its rays, a man pushed a woman from his lap, depositing her on the rug beside him in a pile of ruffled skirts and disgruntled mutterings. He rose with the lithe grace of an acrobat and stepped into the light. “It is true.” For a moment, she doubted that it was him. The voice was deeper and held a trace of severity that she’d never heard in it before. He was larger than she remembered, but then he’d been a young man, a mere seventeen to her sixteen years when last she’d seen him. His shoulders had

broadened and his chest filled out to an impressive width. It was difficult to tell in the baggy breeches preferred by the gypsies, but it appeared that his legs were strong, most likely from hours of riding bareback. Thick, black hair curled around the open collar of his wide-sleeved red shirt. “Marko.” She breathed his name and took a tentative step toward him, her heartbeat so loud in her ears that all other sound was muted. He moved quickly around the fire, the other men stepping back with a deferential air to allow him to reach her. He stopped within a few feet of where she stood and she raised her chin to look at him. She stared, longing to recognize any hint of familiarity in his features, but with the fire at his back, his face was cast in the aged bronze of a statue. “Why are you here?” His tone was brusque. Disappointment welled up, scattering her thoughts. This was not the beloved boy of her memories. He was a stranger who appeared not only hard of body but perhaps hard of spirit and of heart as well. She clamped her arms around her waist under the cloak to subdue the sudden trembling of her body. His eyes narrowed to slits of black. “Having second thoughts?” he inquired with lethal softness. He had always been able to read her emotions but had never attempted to intimidate her. Her brother used this tactic on her often and she had learned how to withstand it. She straightened her shoulders and faced him squarely. “No. We are wed.” “We are not.” The words were so baldly dismissive that they bordered on rude. A flare of anger spread through her and she stepped closer. “How dare you deny it? We were hand-

fasted by the Rom baro.” She put out a hand to beseech those near her. It was unusual for a Rom to be allowed to wed a gadjo. Surely a few among them must remember. When no one spoke up, she let her hand fall back to her side. Their silence, she realized, was not a failure of memory, but reluctance to interfere. Marko bent his head in acknowledgement. The golden flames of the fire played along the curls at his collar, turning them to bright copper. She wanted to reach and touch those locks, see if they were as soft and silky as they looked. If so, it was the only thing soft about him. Above high cheekbones, his eyes glinted as black and polished as obsidian. His lips pressed firmly together before he spoke again. “Again, all true, but the troth was broken.” “Not by me. I have abided by our accord these many years.” And lost all she held dear in the process. “I have not.” Juliet sucked in a painful breath, her breasts lifting to press against the constricting fabric of her laced stays. She had waited for him. Fighting both her father and her brother, she had won the right to suffer long years alone on the hope that he would return. Surely it had not all been in vain. “I – I don’t understand what you’re telling me.” His laugh was a harsh sound that was echoed by one of the men nearby. “I think you do,” he said with silky malice. “Another has taken your place in my bed.” She struck at his face with an open hand. He moved with remarkable swiftness, catching her wrist in a firm grip. Staring at his fingers, dark against the lighter tones of her skin, the last of her hopes shriveled and blew away like dry leaves, tumbling before the wind. This man had once held her with tenderness and youthful

passion. She had burned for him in the endless stretch of lonely nights, had wanted nothing more than to see him again. She had yearned for him to hold her, to seduce her with whispered Romany words of love as he slowly peeled away the layers of her constrictive clothing and brought her to life. Her gaze moved to the woman on the far side of the fire, the one with whom he’d been sitting. Full-figured and pretty, her long dark hair was bound by a ribbon. She exuded an air of sensual grace as she lay against the soft rugs, her gaze hooded but her attitude alert, as if she were wary of the auburn-haired stranger. Juliet raised her eyes to Marko’s face. “Our hand-fasting meant nothing to you?” An arrested look rose in his eyes as if for a moment he too felt the pain of their separation then he shrugged, an offhand gesture that hurt more than his earlier annoyance. “A hand-fasting only holds two people together if there is love in their hearts. You proved long ago that there was none in yours and I was released.” She frowned, unsure what he meant. She had loved him when they jumped the fire and would have claimed she still did until tonight. Now, she wasn’t sure she knew him. A youth, dressed in knee-length pants and a white shirt, approached from the darkness between the vardos. Marko released her and bent his head to listen to the boy’s low whisper. Straightening, he turned with an abrupt motion, clapping his hands. A sharp order was issued and two men jumped to attention. Crossing the clearing, they moved toward the horses with long, athletic strides. Twisting back to face her, Marko spoke. “There are others coming. You must return home. There will be no peace for the tribe if you are found here.”

“Let them come. I have no reputation to protect.” The words were flavored with the bitterness of years of snubs and snide remarks whispered behind lace fans. “I lost it the night we planned to run away together. I waited at our meeting place until dawn and was seen walking home. It made no difference to the gossips that the tribe was gone before I got there.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Surely you weren’t convicted on so little evidence?” “No,” she agreed baldly. “I was found guilty by my own admission. My father arranged for me to marry an older man, one who would excuse the scandal to obtain a nubile wife in his bed. He changed his mind when I told him I’d married a gypsy in a pagan ceremony. No man has offered for my hand since then.” “Perhaps the bride price was too high.” She barely choked back a gasp then turned away to hide the tears his disdain brought to the corners of her eyes. Did he think her so worthless that no man would pay to take her? The Rom custom was for the father of the bride to receive compensation for the loss of his daughter. In her world, the husband demanded the payment as a lure to take on a wife. “No man wants soiled goods, no matter the dowry.” Marko stepped close and placed one hand along her cheek. She felt the slight sting of cool metal from the rings on his fingers. Putting pressure on her jaw, he lifted her chin and looked down at her. “The gadjos are fools.” He turned her face, studying her profile in the flickering light. “If anything, your beauty has improved with age.” His expression was impassive, as if he was viewing a piece of art, but his fingers drifted down the side of her neck with

gentle strokes, finding sensitive nerves that pulsed to life. She liked the deep timbre of his voice as it fell on her ears. As difficult as it was to release her memories of him as a youth, there was much to like in the man he had become. She wanted to stare at him, to study him as he had her. The features that seemed chiseled by the hand of a master sculptor, the powerful muscles in his arms that tightened against his shirt. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the hint of wood smoke, horses and raw night air on his skin and clothes. She breathed deeply of the familiar scent. For a wisp of time, she glimpsed the lad she recalled under the grim exterior of the man before her. He was still her Marko. Her lover. Her husband. Juliet leaned into his touch and swayed toward him, her skirts brushing against the worn leather of his boots. She thought there was an answering flare in the depths of his dark eyes before he released her and turned away. Without him near, the night crept in, cooling her skin and leaving her feeling a prize fool. She had her answer. He didn’t want her. She turned back toward the path she’d come down. “Juliet.” Marko’s voice was quiet yet carried a hint of command that she responded to instinctively. She turned as he reached for her elbow, guiding her around the fire toward the wagons. “You will go with Vadoma.” They stopped in front of the old woman whom Juliet had earlier compared to a witch, and Marko helped her to her feet. “Stay with her until I come for you.” She wanted to argue, but he was gone, easing into the shadows between the wooden wagons as if he’d never been there at all. The sound of horse hooves coming closer

echoed through the trees. Tension hovered over the camp. An unexpected guest at night was seldom good news. Someone strummed an instrument and a young girl rose and danced slowly, the layers of her skirt flowing with her graceful movements. The old woman called Vadoma beckoned to her with a hand covered in gold rings. Juliet followed her, glad to leave the curious stares of those around the fire. The wagon that the woman led her to sat on the far edge of the camp. Inside, it was pitch black until Vadoma lit an oil lamp using the glowing end of a stick she had pulled from the fire. Juliet had been in a vardo before, but never one so packed with things. The rafters were strung with rows of drying flowers, herbs and mushrooms, thickening the air with an overwhelming combination of sharp woodsy scents and sweet floral. Small pots and jars with cork stoppers were lined up in racks built against one wall. Unusual items, perhaps mementos of her ramblings through Europe, were everywhere. A carved clock of dark wood, the blue glass circle of a charm against the evil eye and nested boxes painted to resemble women vied for space with pillows, rugs and woven blankets. Staring at a wall hanging with a star in the middle and embroidered designs that represented the seasons around the edge, Juliet was startled into speech. “Are you a witch?” “Witches are like to be burned at the stake,” the woman said with gentle reproof. “I am a healer. My name, Vadoma, means to have knowledge. I have served that pledge all my life.” She gestured at the low bench that appeared to be made up as a sleeping cot with a gaily colored quilt covering its wooden surface. “Sit. I will make tea.” Juliet watched as she placed a copper kettle over the

flame of a small burner and measured tea leaves into a china pot with faded red roses painted on its rim. Cups were pulled from hooks on the wall and the woman spun a stick in a pot of thick golden honey, adding a hefty portion to each. When it was ready, Vadoma handed her a cup and settled next to her on the bench. The old woman sighed with pleasure as she sipped at her own cup of steaming brew. Hot and sweet, it was exactly what Juliet needed. “Marko was named our Rom baro two years ago,” the woman said, her words heavily accented with the rhythm of various languages. “I have watched him grow into a strong man, one not likely to give over to a girl’s whim.” “Marko is the tribe’s leader?” Juliet couldn’t keep the wonder from her tone. She’d sensed the change in him – the tough, almost dangerous edge that he’d not carried when she’d known him before. It made him more attractive, she realized with uneasy surprise. What kind of woman was she that her breath quickened and her body tightened with cravings for the dark and dangerous? “We chose him because he is experienced in the outside world. We have done well under him.” The old lady spread her hands to display the gold rings that adorned each finger. “We have what we need and it is enough for most, but not for Marko. I fear that he is being seduced by the outside ways.” Roms, Juliet knew, preferred to keep their money on their person in the form of jewelry or coins. It wasn’t so much the gaudy display that most people thought as a handy way to trade. To be tied down by too many possessions was sacrilege. Gypsies wanted no more than the wind at their backs and the stars over their heads at night. They traveled with the seasons, wintering in the

warmer climates and returning to England with the spring. It had once been all Juliet desired as well, but looking around the tiny wagon, she wasn’t sure if she could have turned her back on all she knew to take up this life. “To desire a sturdy roof over your head is not an unusual thing,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Perhaps not for some,” the old woman agreed. She took another sip from her cup. “We have adopted other things from the gadjos. Our marriages have been blessed by the parish priest these long years now. Our children are baptized and thus can’t be taken from us as heathen slaves.” Juliet frowned. “But I was bound to Marko. I watched your tribe dance around the May pole–” “Yes, yes,” Vadoma interrupted, “we honor the old ways as well. To not do so would be to tempt fate, wouldn’t it?” She shrugged. “I have seen many generations jump the Springfire for luck, but still very little of it falls on my people.” The gypsies had lived with distrust and persecution for centuries. The ways in which such a history would shape a person were hard to imagine. Juliet frowned as she stared into her cup. There was some undercurrent to the conversation that was eluding her. “So you don’t believe in the ancient magic?” Carefully setting her cup to one side, Vadoma reached to take Juliet’s hand and turned it palm up. Her skin was surprisingly smooth; it was likely the younger women of the tribe did most of the chores. Juliet’s breath caught and held as the woman bent her head over their joined hands and stared down at them with quiet intent. “I believe we are born with a destiny that is written in the stars and reflected in our palm,” she said at last. She

traced one fingernail across Juliet’s palm, the touch light yet somehow searing at the same time. Juliet wanted to jerk her hand away, to scrub the skin of her palm against the fabric of her dress to erase the mark that must surely be there. Instead, curiosity rose in her. Destiny. It was not something she’d placed much faith in these last years. If her destiny was to endure the life of a spinster, fallen from grace, she cried foul. There had to be more to expect from the rest of her days. She wanted to run her own home. She wanted a husband to help shoulder the burdens of life and children to brighten her days. She wanted peace, comfort, passion and love. She leaned closer to stare at her own palm. Hope thrilled through her veins. “What do you see? The woman was silent for a moment. “The path is clear. Staying on the path? It is not so easy.” Ambiguity. Disappointment settled into the pit of her stomach. She might have expected it. In fact, gypsies were known for saying just enough to lead their victim to draw their own conclusions about their fate. Looking intently at the lines etched in her skin, she wondered whether there was anything to be seen there at all or if it was just a way for the Rom to part the foolish gadjo from their money. In fairness though, Vadoma had not asked for anything in return for the palm reading. “But if it’s destiny?” she said with an uncertain tremor. “Won’t you return to the path until it is fulfilled?” The idea that her life was pre-ordained held a certain appeal. It might be easier to bear the lack of a husband and children if the loneliness were not of her making. A short knock sounded and the door to the vardo swung open, letting in a rush of cool night air. Marko leaped

up the narrow stairs in a single smooth motion and pulled the door shut behind him. His presence seemed to fill the small wagon to the point of suffocation. Juliet’s fingers tightened over Vadoma’s. He was incredibly handsome in a dark, exotic fashion that drew her gaze. She knew she was staring but couldn’t stop herself. She had missed him dreadfully. Without him, it seemed that she had been stuck in limbo, existing with no real purpose, waiting for his return to bring color and excitement back into her life. “Ma.” The woman patted Juliet’s hand then released it. “Madam Destiny can always use a little nudge in the right direction.” “Shade the lamp,” Marko instructed in terse tones. “We don’t want to be seen as we go.” When the door closed behind them, Juliet squinted her eyes as they adjusted to the dimness. Marko moved ahead, a silent silhouette against the flickering of firelight that edged between the trees. Lifting her skirts, she hurried after him. The horse that had been saddled was a large, sturdy gelding as capable of pulling a wagon as carrying two people. Juliet stood at its shoulder, silently cursing herself for not wearing a riding habit. With the current fashion of narrow skirts, she’d have to ride sideways. Marko mounted then leaned down, one arm extended to help her up in front of him on the saddle. He saw her hesitation but did not straighten. With quiet authority, he said, “Your brother and his companion are busy for the moment drinking our wine and watching our women dance. Come now if you do not wish to be caught here by them.” James’ tongue could be cutting when he was angered

and it was likely that he had his best friend, Lord Reginald Stowe, with him. The man tended to watch her when he was near. His gaze gave her the shivers, as if his thoughts were immoral. It was enough to spur her into action. Tossing the edges of her cloak back across her shoulders, she raised both arms. Grasping the horse’s long, plaited mane with one hand, she winced as Marko’s hand circled her other forearm in a crushing grip. For a second, she was airborne then she was settled in front of him with surprising gentleness. Before she could catch her breath, he’d kicked the animal into motion.

~ Chapter 2 ~ Marko groaned inside as Juliet settled more comfortably across his thighs. He could have sent one of the older men to escort her home but had insisted on doing it himself. He’d told himself that it was to ensure her safety as she was still a young and beautiful woman. Now that he held her, he knew it was because since he had seen her appear at the fire, all he’d wanted was to pull her close. He clenched his fingers on the leather of the reins in an effort to distract himself from the need to tug the pins from her auburn hair and spread the tresses across her breast. He was silent for long moments, guiding the horse along the track as he absorbed the heat of her skin and imparted his own. She had grown more womanly in the years since they’d last met. The changes fascinated him. She was softer, her body more rounded, yet the gentle gaze and easy smile he remembered had been replaced by the nearly constant frown that creased her brow. She had not been happy. That sure knowledge disturbed him, and he shied away from considering it further. He leaned toward her to breathe in the sweet perfume of her hair. That had not changed. The scent of lavender and rose brought forth memories he thought he’d buried long ago. Her hair flying around her, shining in the sun as she twirled in a field of early wildflowers, the strands sliding across his fingers as he’d held her head for his kisses. It was a delicious form of torture to hold her in his arms

again, to feel the lush curves of her body press against him, arousing him with her innocent shifting against his most sensitive areas. Perhaps not so innocent, he amended as she moved again. She had been touchingly eager to express their young love. He had taken her freely offered virginity even before their hand-fasting, though he had not been wise to the ways of pleasuring a woman. He often regretted those quick, fumbling couplings. Still, even if she had received no further tutoring, she could not be unaware of what she was doing to him. A soft hiss escaped him as she shifted again. “Be still,” he said through clenched teeth, “else you will receive a bedding this night if not a husband.” She was rigid for a moment, then relaxed back against him. “I’ve seen your woman at the camp. It is unlikely that you would want me when she is waiting for you.” He thought of Jaelle, a warm and willing mistress, a widow who wanted him only because of the status it gave her to be with the Rom baro. She secretly had eyes for Luca’s youngest son, something he’d known for a time. He’d intended to release her so that she could pursue the desire of her heart, but had never found the right moment. Perhaps it was because he knew that once the tribe crossed back into the north of England this spring, he might need to seek forgetfulness in her body. “You would be surprised,” he said with deliberate taunting. “I could leave you and go to her later, taking you both in a night.” She strained to lean away from him. “I have vast experience with exactly how base men can be,” she said, her tone tart with the flavor of bad memories. “Have you now?” A slow burning fury rose in him at the

thought that she’d welcomed other lovers after him. He had carried a heavy burden of guilt at taking her innocence then leaving her behind when the tribe moved on. Surely he had not wasted emotion on a woman who had become no better than a harlot. “I’ve watched my brother court his love, Charlotte, at a ball with chaste dances and sweet words, then seek out the housemaid for a rut as soon as he returns home.” “I am not James.” He was unable to keep the loathing from his voice. Juliet seemed to recognize the emotion, her body stiffening. “You think you are more honorable than he because you trick your female conquests with the pretense of a sham marriage? I would prefer the honesty of admitting it was no more than slaking of a momentary thirst.” He ignored the hint that she thought him a charlatan. Their marriage had been real enough to both him and the tribe, though short-lived. “Have you had much experience with this slaking?” She was silent so long that he didn’t think she would answer. His muscles slowly tensed as if waiting for a blow. The sound of the horse’s hooves was muted by the soft mat of dead leaves. As his knees tightened around the saddle, the horse sensed the change in his mood and shifted, sidling with unease. “I have often thought about what marriage to another would entail,” she said at last, her words soft and uncertain, “but I honored my vows.” His anger evaporated in an instant, replaced by a fierce sense of satisfaction. He alone had touched her. He had endured months of teasing from the younger men in the tribe after he’d hand-fasted with this woman then left her

behind. They had assumed that he had tired of her quickly. They’d not understood the attraction of her pale, soft skin or the honeyed sweetness of her kisses. Nor had they known her quick wit and intelligence, the satisfaction of long afternoons, talking with her and nights of holding her close while the moon slid slowly across the sky. Time had not dimmed the allure she held for him. It would be interesting to find out if the same held true for her. A smile curved his lips. Though she had boldly demanded her rightful place with her husband, he doubted that she was intent on living the wandering life of a gypsy. Perhaps he should prod her to find out what she really wanted from him. He bent so that his breath whispered against her cheek. “It seems a shame that someone so young and beautiful should be introduced to the pleasures of the flesh and then left bereft. It must have meant long, empty nights. Have your secret petals swelled and ached for me, my sweet?” Her gasp was loud, though he couldn’t tell whether it was from outrage or excitement. “You shouldn’t say such things to me.” “I was your husband. We can speak openly.” When she didn’t seem capable of responding, he continued, his tone low and musing. “I feel that compensation should be made.” He moved slightly so that his lips grazed against the silken skin near her ear. He felt the slight shiver that she couldn’t control. Lowering the angle at which he held the reins, he allowed the weight of his forearms to rest against the tops of her thighs. He felt the soft, feminine curve of her under the thin skirts and shift. “Is there aught that you would command of me? Any service

I can perform?” “No,” she said, her voice shaky. Then as if it needed emphasis, she said more fiercely, “No.” His lips curved against her skin. “I feel strongly about settling my accounts. Perhaps a kiss will go some distance toward paying the debt?” “A simple kiss?” She seemed to grab onto the suggestion with relief in her tone. “That would be acceptable. Then we can have done with this foolishness.” With touching hesitancy, she settled back against him and reached to place her small palm against his skin at the open neck of his shirt. Her hand was cool, but the contact seemed to sear him, leaving him branded with her essence. He stopped the horse in the edge of a clearing, one he thought she would recognize. Leaving the reins loose on the horse’s neck, he reached to rest one palm at the line of her jaw, tracing the smoothness of her cheek with the tips of his fingers. Tilting her face up toward him, he bent to place a light kiss at her temple. With the slightest increase of pressure, he touched his lips near her ear, then the turn of her jaw, stopping to taste her skin with the tip of his tongue as he went. She was delicious. The silk of her skin, the freshness of her scent made him want to slowly release her from the confines of her heavy cloak and dress, revealing every inch of her beautiful body to him. As she relaxed, allowing her weight to rest against him, he slid his lips back across hers. With gentle strokes, he teased her mouth open and explored the soft borders of the inside of her lips and the hard edges of her teeth. He teased with a rhythm of increasing pressure then withdrawal, each time taking her more fully into him. The

slowly building arousal was like nothing he’d ever experienced. He took his time, enjoying it, reveling in the taste and feel of the woman in his arms. She made a slight sound, one he wasn’t sure was distress or encouragement. Deliberately, he stilled, testing her resolve. His voice low and surprisingly husky, he asked, “Tell me, Juliet, is this what you sought me out for?” “No.” The word had a breathless quality that gave him pause. Slowly, he lowered his head again, his lips settling across hers lightly. She returned the pressure for a moment before turning her head. He whispered against her cheek. “Do not attempt to lie to me. I remember a time when you forgot the gadjo restrictions and led life with your heart.” She leaned away, against the constraint of his arms. “I have paid dearly for that time.” Reaching for her hand where it lay against his chest, he slid his fingers against her bare ones. “You chose the path you travelled when you returned my ring.” He turned their joined hands so that she could see the ring he had given her years before, the one he now wore on his smallest finger. Her sharp, indrawn breath was loud in the stillness. “Where did you get that?” “It was hand-delivered to me by your brother James, along with a message that you never wanted to see me again. Are you denying that you sent him?” “You know that I didn’t,” she said, the words indignant. “I told you that I waited at our meeting place.” The words should have brought him a small measure of peace, but instead regret at the time they’d lost rose like a

shadow. What would his life and hers have been like if he had waited for her, taken her with him? He frowned as something else nudged at his consciousness. “What of the ring? How could James obtain it?” She shifted restlessly, pulling her hand from his to pluck at the material of her cloak. “It disappeared from my dressing table. I thought one of the maids had stolen it, but I couldn’t very well ask–” “Because you didn’t want anyone to know about your gypsy lover,” he finished for her. Her silence condemned her. The painful twist in his gut was a surprise. He thought he had accepted the conclusion of their affair long ago, had guessed at the reasons for it even then. “I was young,” she said at last, her voice low. “I was afraid my father would find out and try to stop me.” “And now that your own kind has turned away, you want your gypsy husband back? I’m hardly flattered.” “I’ve changed my mind. I no longer want anything from you.” Her voice was high, spiraling with tension. “You have given me your kiss. The debt you imagined is paid. Take me home.” “Ah, but what if I want more from you?” With careful strokes of his lips against her cheek, he eased his mouth closer to hers. It no longer mattered why she’d come to him. It was enough that she was there. “What you want is no longer my concern.” He ignored the unsteady words, studying her actions with close attention. She allowed him to tighten his arms, pulling her closer. Her hands moved to his chest again, her fingers clenching in the material of his shirt. She inhaled

deeply, the movement pressing the lightly boned edges of her stays against his ribs. His hand drifted to her shoulder, turning her more fully toward him as his mouth slid across hers. She opened to him with flattering accommodation and he eased his lips more firmly across hers. Sweet, she was sweet with the slightest hint of fervor rising to flavor her mouth. He wanted to delve deeper, to lose himself in her and never resurface. There was something about her that called to the depths of his soul. He’d searched but never found the like in any other woman. He silently scoffed at himself for the thought. He wasn’t normally given to idealistic fancy. It had to be brought on by the resurrection of youthful nostalgia and the heady rise of passion. She wanted him. It was apparent in the way she pressed against him and her hand crept up to lace in the curls at the collar of his shirt. He wanted her too. Now, in this place where they had pledged their troth with the awkward passion of adolescents. He would prove to himself that she was just a woman, no more special than the rest. He would use her body, lay aside the ghost of her memory and then leave her again. This time, he would not return. ~~~ Juliet thought perhaps this was what it felt like to drown. Her breath seemed to have left her body and she couldn’t find it in her to care. The heat and scent of Marko surrounded her and merged with her own. The feel of his fingers against her skin was far more enticing than any of the dreams she’d had of him and she leaned helplessly into his kiss. As she

opened her mouth to his, he eased his tongue between her lips. He tasted of coffee edged with something untamed as a stormy night. Gone was the rough thrusting of the tongue that she remembered. In its place was tempting warmth that sparked tiny flames low in her abdomen. She pressed against him as one kiss led gently into another, his lips tenderly tormenting the corners of her mouth before moving to bring nerve endings to life along her cheek and down the line of her neck. With deft movements that she barely even registered, he shifted her gown from one shoulder, his lips following the slide of the material, raising gooseflesh against her chilled skin. She knew that she should stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so quite yet. Curiosity and fascination with the sensations he wrought from her were strong enticements. Taking her mouth again in a long, languorous kiss, he loosened the lacings of her stays and slid the garment to the sides. She reached with one hand to tug him away, but his forearm was solid muscle under her fingers. His large, warm hand cupped her breast through the thin fabric of her shift. Juliet tensed and a low sound of need escaped her, causing a blush to cover her chest and neck. He must have thought she protested, for he whispered against her mouth. “Let me pleasure you.” Heaven help her, it was what she desired as well, the reason she’d sought him out. Before she could voice a plea to him to do as he wished, he released her lips and dipped his head to draw her nipple into the wet heat of his mouth. Her startled cry of delight disturbed the horse, making him shift under them. She buried her face in the fabric of his shirt, embarrassed at her response.

Marko’s breath was warm against her skin as he chuckled. Thrusting one arm under the skirts at her knees, he swung his leg across the saddle and slid to the ground with her cradled in his arms. Turning, he stepped into the clearing, the weak moonlight gilding his skin and glinting off the small hoop earring he wore. He was strong, carrying her as if she were a slight burden. Laying her down gently on a bed of dry leaves that had blown beneath the branches of an oak tree, he tucked her cloak under her to protect her from the cold dampness of the ground. She recognized the clearing as the same one where she and Marko had met years ago. Though they were on her family’s land, she had avoided revisiting the spot. It was so strange to be here with him again that she fought to separate the intense memories she had of this place from the realities of the moment. As he leaned above her, Marko was the anchor that moored her in the moment. She clung to him, urging him down with her. His breath was loud over the rustle of the leaves as he settled beside her. Curving his body over hers protectively, he buried his face in her neck, his lips seeking the wild pulse that beat there. With one hand he teased through her hair, searching for the pins that held it in place then spread the freed strands over her shoulder. “So beautiful. I never thought …” His voice was hoarse as he trailed off. “No, that’s not true. I’ve thought of nothing else since we crossed the border of Derbyshire. I’ve tried to leave you in peace, but I found myself thinking of you at odd moments and wondering….” He placed one palm against her cheek, staring down into her face. His expression was obscured by the shadows of newly sprouted leaves above them.

“Just this once, Juliet,” he said at length. “I have longed to erase the memories of fumbling youth and show you what it feels like to be held by a man. Let me do this for you. For us.” “Only once?” He intended to share this magic and then leave her as bereft as she had been for the past years? Her insides recoiled at the thought, pressing the air from her lungs. He seemed to misunderstand. “It is all I ask. The tribe will move on and I will make sure they never return. You will be free to live your life as you will, to seek a husband without the shadow of our hand-fasting over you.” How could he fail to realize that their hand-fasting was not an incident she wanted to erase, but the most brilliant hours of her life? Could she bear to bond with him again then face the lonely nights with a sweet, fresh reminder of what she was missing? Could she bear not to? With his body pressed to hers, his warmth soaking through to her skin, heating her very blood, it was easily answered. She was already ruined in the eyes of the society in which she lived. What more could they do to her, say about her? She’d take what enjoyment she could and suffer the consequences later. It was a far better choice than having nothing of him at all. With a murmur, she slid her fingers into the thick curls at his neck and urged his head down to hers. Their lips touched lightly and she opened to him, straining upward to increase the pressure. He seemed to understand that her actions acted as assent. With delicate care, he spread his fingers across the shoulder he’d bared earlier, pushing the gown further along her arm. His lips followed the path he had created, leaving

a trail of warmth that spread from her shoulders, across her chest and down her belly. As his palms smoothed down her ribcage, stopping to cup the curve of her hip, his mouth found the taut peak of her breast and covered it with wet fire. Her back arched as she strove to press herself more fully into his mouth, but he soothed her, stroking up and down her back with the tips of his fingers. “You have learned a great deal,” she said on a shaky breath. Her hands clenched in his hair as he released the suction on her nipple and brushed his closed lips across its rigid surface. Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. “I have not had the advantage.” She tried to keep the note of jealousy out of her voice, but feared that he’d caught its edge. His breath was warm between her breasts as he murmured, “I am more than happy to remedy that.” A small laugh escaped her. For a moment, she was back in time, exploring and learning with the younger Marko. He’d been rougher then, but her hunger for him had matched his ardor. She had wondered sometimes how she had dared to defy convention and come to this gypsy boy, but now she knew. As he eased down her body, his lips and hands caressing, finding those small spots that brought delicious shivers, she wondered instead how she had forgotten how enthralling the act of loving Marko could be. When he grasped the fabric of her skirt, pulling it upward, she shifted, allowing the material to bunch beneath her. His hand found her calf and he gently urged her knee upward, then he was gliding his palm along the inner curve of her thigh until he reached the most secret place of her body. As his fingers touched the closed lips there, he took her mouth in a fierce kiss, smothering her cry of surprise.

His mouth raided hers, stealing her breath with the wicked darting of his tongue. So compelling was he that she allowed the intrusion of his hand, gently separating and probing into the dampness of her body. He rubbed the moisture that he found there against a small crown, causing her to stiffen with a delight so sharp it was near pain. He released her mouth, his tongue tasting the underside of her chin. “Slowly, my sweet. I’ve much to show you.” “W–will I like it?” She couldn’t imagine anything that could eclipse his seeking fingers. His whisper was nearly lost against her breast. “If not, command me as you will.” Easing lower, he pushed her skirt higher, rubbing his cheek against the softness of her belly, pressing a kiss against each of the small protrusions of her hip bones before moving to place a warm caress on the inner curve of her thigh. Juliet tensed and her fingers edged into his hair, tugging to urge him back up to her mouth. Reaching, he removed one hand from his hair and guided it to her breast, his own large one covering it. As he tweaked the nipple with the tips of his fingers, his tongue slid across her lower lips and she twisted with the pleasurable sting of the combined sensations. Marko groaned as he tasted her, the slight salty evidence of her arousal awakening an answering hardness in his own body. Until this moment, he had been deliberate with his movements, seeking to bring them both to the peak of desire. Now, he lost himself in the sensations, licking and kissing until she moaned and the muscles in her legs contracted as she edged against his mouth with small upward thrusts. Releasing the fastening on his pants, he

freed his erection, more ready than he’d believed possible. Replacing his lips with his fingers, he shifted upward with wet, warm kisses against her stomach then paused to take a nipple in his mouth, reveling in the hardness of the small bud. As he matched his mouth with hers again, he nestled his hips into hers, the head of his arousal pressing into the dampness there as his fingers stroked. He had intended to be gentle, but her tongue played with his in an ardent dance that burned into his brain, erasing all conscious thought. When Juliet raised her knees, her legs going around his back, he gave her what she sought, sinking into the depths of her body. Their collective groan was buried in a wild melding of mouths. Her fingers clenched into the fabric of his shirt as he moved, setting a rhythm that both satisfied and teased beyond endurance at the same time. His breathing grew harsh and he slowly released her mouth to stare down at the woman he held. She was lovely beyond compare with the moonlight gilding the curves of her cheeks and the building tension tightening the muscles in her neck. Placing one palm against her face, he traced the lashes that lay against her cheek with the pad of one thumb. “Look at me,” he urged. Her lids seemed too heavy to lift, but she complied, meeting his gaze with a soft, unfocused stare. “You will remember this?” Her answer was so low that he barely heard the one word. “Always.” It was enough. Leaning onto one elbow, he reached between them to cover her breast, his fingers seeking the hardened nipple. He squeezed until she cried out and he felt the pulsing of her inner muscles around him as she

shattered. It was all he could do not to follow her into that bliss, but he held on, stroking her until the last of the tremors eased and she began to relax. Then, pulling free of her body, he finished against her stomach, his own release leaving him shaken and surprisingly weak. He murmured to her, soft wordless sounds that eased them both, then he kissed her gently. As his mouth drifted over hers, soothing lips swollen from his earlier hard kisses, he slowly became aware of his surroundings, of the sounds of the night, their cooling skin. He didn’t want to move, so thoroughly sated was he, yet at the same time, he was wary with an edgy alertness. They were alone; he was sure of it. Their final time together was a sweet secret they shared. Unlike in their youth, no further censure would fall on Juliet for their actions. But still, a veiled thought pushed at him as if he’d overlooked a shift on the outer edges of his consciousness. Something had changed, and he had the peculiar feeling life was never going to be the same.

~ Chapter 3 ~ Juliet closed the door behind her with a click and slid the heavy cloak from her shoulders, leaving it draped across the closest slipper chair. Marko had left her at the fountain near the back of the gardens, one of their meeting places when they were younger. It had been a short and final goodbye. The blue and cream of the rug on the hall floor blurred as tears threatened, stinging in the back of her throat. She wanted nothing more than to run to her room and bury her face in her pillow. She would block out his last words and cling to the scent and feel of his body on hers as long as possible. As she moved toward the stairs, her brother’s voice hailed her from the open door of the library. There was no denying James. He would send a housemaid after her if she refused to appear. Brushing a hand across her eyes, she thrust her hair back across her shoulders and tried to school her features into a smooth mask. A few candles and a weak blaze in the hearth were the only sources of light in the library. Thick cigar smoke mingled with the sharpness of aged brandy, making Juliet feel slightly queasy. James sat in a winged chair beside the fire with Lord Stowe in the opposite seat. “I see you’ve been tumbling with the gypsy again,” James said, the habitual sneer in his tone more pronounced. Inside, she flinched at the crude expression for what

had been the most beautiful experience of her life. She refused to rise to the bait, having learned to disregard her brother’s opinion of her. “Did you want something, dear brother?” His friend rose and moved to stand with his back to the small blaze. Reginald Stowe was dressed more casually than was seemly in her presence, his jacket thrown across the back of his chair. She had never realized how small a man he was and wondered if the current fashion of puffed sleeves on coats disguised the narrow shoulders of many of the men of her acquaintance. Or perhaps he only appeared small in comparison to Marko. “Careful,” the man said with only the slightest hint of a slur to indicate how much brandy he had consumed. “You’re speaking of my future wife.” “Wife!” Juliet’s exclamation was ignored by the men. “Look at her,” James said with a careless wave of one hand. “Her hair is down her back and she’s doubtless been used like a bitch in heat. I fail to understand your desire to take her to wife, but if you want the wench, she’s yours.” The other man lifted his glass to his lips and drank deeply, his gaze never leaving Juliet. She thought she could feel the intensity of his stare against her as it roamed over her face and down the wrinkled and creased length of her skirt. A shiver ran down her back. She crossed her arms, grasping her forearms with her hands and hoping that he didn’t notice she was covering her breasts from his view. “I enjoy the idea of having a spitfire in my bed,” he drawled. “It will save me the trouble of going to a brothel to find a woman with tastes that match my own.”

“I don’t recall hearing your proposal,” Juliet said, trying to keep her voice steady. Both men had obviously been drinking, not only now but also when they visited the gypsy camp. If she were lucky, by the time they woke tomorrow, the whole episode would be forgotten. “It is no longer your choice.” James’ voice was hard with determination. “When your actions tonight become known, it is certain that Charlotte will refuse my suit. We must quiet the scandal immediately.” Anger rose in Juliet and she took a quick step further into the room. “I’ll not pay the price for your failure to obtain a wife.” “My failure, as you put it, is a direct result of your promiscuous ways.” “My promiscuous –” She stopped, stunned at the insult. “You make it sound as if I’ve lain with half the village. I was married–” “A make-shift ceremony of no moment,” he interrupted harshly. “Even your supposed husband recognized that he had no hold on you. He left without a backward glance as soon as it was made clear that you would not be joining him.” So Marko had told the truth. James had been the one to send him away. “You had no right.” “What I did was for the good of the family. We could never have shown our faces in polite circles if you had run off with the gypsy boy.” She should be angry, but instead all she felt was sadness for the loss of young love. That moment in time could never be regained. Marko had moved on. He was now a man, a strong leader. She had made her choice as well, electing to wither away quietly, rather than endure a

loveless marriage. “For the sake of your pride, you ruined my life.” “I’ve done nothing. You allowed yourself to be taken in by a scoundrel. More than once, I might add. I thought better of your sense. He is back again, taking what he wants, but he hasn’t proposed a real marriage has he?” She couldn’t deny it, though she longed to with every beat of her heart. Her lips trembled and she pressed them together until she felt the sharp edges of her front teeth digging into the soft skin. She would not cry in front of James, though the pain of having her hopes dashed a second time was an open wound that she suspected would take months, if not years, to heal. “I thought not,” he scoffed. “Charlotte has discreetly let it be known that she doesn’t wish to live under the same roof as you. If you are wed and move into your own home, she will accept my suit.” “I’ve refused others who asked for my hand.” James slammed his glass of brandy down on the small table next to him and straightened in his chair. “Father was too soft with you. I’ll brook no refusal.” “Enough!” Juliet turned her head sharply toward her brother’s friend. In the heat of the argument, she had forgotten he was in the room. “I will woo my bride in my own way, James. Leave us for a few moments.” Her brother lurched to his feet and brushed by her without a word, though his expression promised retribution. Silence held the room for a few moments as if the other man needed to marshal his thoughts. He watched her with

a brooding stare that unnerved her. Finally, she forced herself to speak. “Spare yourself further trouble. I will never marry.” Carefully setting his glass down on the mantel behind him, he stepped across the room, stopping close beside her. Juliet struggled not to flinch as he reached to wrap a reddish-brown curl around his finger then smoothed it over her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her bare skin near her collarbone, lingering for long seconds. It was an intolerable intimacy. He would never have dared touch her in normal circumstances. She wondered if this show of disrespect was how she was to be treated the rest of her life. “That would be a crime against nature,” he said slowly, “one that I can’t allow.” “You would force me to wed as James wants to do?” His dry chuckle surprised her and she turned her head, noting that his smile was not as pleasant as the tone of his voice. “Of course not, but do consider. Your gypsy lover has left you again. You might even now be breeding. What will you do if that occurs?” She wanted to tell him that it was unlikely, given that Marko had pulled out at the peak of their passion, but she knew there was always the possibility. For a moment, she ached with the desire that it should be so, that she could hold a child of Marko’s in her arms. It would be some small piece of him that she could love as she endured the lonely years to come. The truth must have shown on her face for he laughed in soft triumph. “So you want children.” He shrugged and let his fingers drift lazily down her upper arm. “And I need an heir. We can be of great use to each other.”

Gooseflesh was raised where his hand had traveled down her skin. “I – I don’t believe we will suit,” Juliet said through clenched teeth. Something about the man set her senses on alert. “I believe you’re wrong about that.” His gaze was hooded as he studied her face. He raised his hand to brush the back of his fingers against her lips. She turned her head away from his touch as he leaned in close. His breath was warm against her cheek. “I know much about pleasing a woman. In time, you will welcome me into your bed.” The thought of accepting another man into her body so soon after loving Marko repelled her. She couldn’t fathom ever considering it. He stepped back as if sensing the rising level of her distress. “You brother is right about one thing; you are unlikely to receive another offer. Let us decide this thing now. We’ll be married as soon as the bans have been read.” He had a point, one never far from her thoughts. Marko had released her and returned to the dark-haired beauty who shared his bed. Shouldn’t she move on as he had? It seemed weak and somewhat cowardly to sit and pine for him, condemning herself to a lifetime of being alone. Lord Stowe offered another solution, the very one that Marko wished for her. She raised her hands to press her fingers against her eyes. She was so tired, but time was short. She must think. She must act. Or lose this chance forever. In desperation, she tried another tactic. “It isn’t fair to you, to be burdened with a woman who loves another and could be carrying his child.”

“I long for nothing more than the compensations you can offer.” The words were polite but the tone conveyed his meaning only too clearly. Instinctively, she recoiled, then forced herself to consider the matter with her brain and not her emotions. As Reginald Stowe’s wife she would have wealth and a position in society. With what she knew of his reputation, it was unlikely that he would be a faithful husband, but once he had given her children, she would not care that he spent his nights elsewhere. It was not the relationship she had hoped for, but it was no better or worse than ones that young women of her acquaintance entered into every day. After years of enduring sneers and snubs, she would finally have a home of her own. She could escape the prison of living under James’ thumb and create some measure of a normal life. She could move on. Without Marko. Swallowing hard, she held out her hand to the man before her. “I accept your proposal.”

~ Chapter 4 ~ Juliet stared out the window of the milliner’s shop, her gaze drawn across the street to a group of dark-skinned children playing with a stray dog. She’d seen for herself that gypsy children were raised by the entire tribe, scolded and petted equally by all adults. Though she’d heard rumors that the children were allowed to wander through the village alone, she suspected that there was someone nearby, guarding them closely. They led a different life, one that she had once longed to be a part of. Now, she watched from the outside edge of their circle, much as she did her own society. The mere fact that she was betrothed to Lord Stowe had not restored her reputation or brought her friends calling. It would take time for them to accept her into their sphere again. Perhaps tomorrow, after the wedding, when she was settled at Stowe Hall, she would begin to see a change. She clung to that thought as a drowning man would a life line, repeating it over and over. After the wedding. After the wedding. It was how she had made it through these last weeks and how she would make it down the aisle tomorrow. “Miss Bailey.” The shop girl curtsied politely and held out the package on which she’d been waiting. In it was the fine silk shift and short stays that she’d ordered to wear with her wedding gown. The dress itself would be delivered to the house later today. Even now, the seamstress was

setting the beautiful loops of tiny pearls that Reginald had provided. It had all been such a rush, for which she was thankful. No time to think. No time to regret the choice made. Stepping into the street, she turned left, her head down, watching for puddles. The last few days had been wet, a good omen for the farmers but bad for her fabric shoes. Around the ruffled edge of her bonnet, she saw someone emerge from the dry goods merchant as she passed, and she sidestepped neatly to avoid bumping into the woman. When a hand closed around her wrist, she gasped in surprise. “Calm yourself, dear,” a frail but familiar voice said near her ear. “It is just I, Vadoma.” Juliet turned her head and met the clear direct gaze of the elderly woman. In the daylight, she appeared older than Juliet had first assumed, and Juliet was reminded again of her resemblance to the witch in the book of fairy tales. The thought shamed her and to cover her discomfort, she spoke warmly. “I hope I see you well today.” “My old bones ache in this damp climate, and my thoughts turn dark with foreboding.” A shudder of disquiet passed across Juliet’s skin, but she pasted on a semblance of a smile. “Wish me well. I am to marry tomorrow.” The words were forced and a bit too loud, but with luck, the old woman would not think anything amiss. Above all, she did not want Marko to suspect that she was dissatisfied with the engagement. “I wish you all the happiness in the world,” the other woman said, though her black eyes had narrowed with a fierce frown that drew her brows together. Her grip on Juliet’s wrist tightened, and she tugged her down so that

their faces were close. A harsh whisper filled her ear. “There are at least two paths to an end. The correct one to choose is clear to those who seek it.” Juliet yanked her arm from the woman’s grasp and straightened, more disturbed by her tone and the attitude of grave sincerity than by the words. “Thank you,” she managed to mumble before dropping a quick curtsy and hurrying away. The walk home seemed to take forever as she mulled over the strangeness of the woman’s remarks. There was no sense to be made of the mutterings about paths, but then Vadoma had said much the same thing when telling her fortune in the vardo. Nothing so simple as the expected listing of marriages and number of children had been offered. Life, it seemed, was to be complicated for her. As Juliet entered the house, her maid scurried to take her packages and help her to change. The young girl clucked disapprovingly when she saw the mud that caked the hem of Juliet’s skirt. “You should have sent me to run the errand, miss. You’re lucky you didn’t get a wetting. Such weather. I hear tell it’s going to rain again tonight.” Shutting the door to Juliet’s bedroom behind them, she rambled on, unconcerned by her mistress’ lack of response. “My Ma tells me that the children be wanting to wait by the side of the road to see your wedding gown as you ride to church, but they weren’t sure which way you would travel.” The girl’s voice was muffled as she bent to remove Juliet’s shoes. She clucked in displeasure at the mud then laid them near the fire to dry before returning to start on the buttons on the back of Juliet’s dress. “I hear the south road to the village is nigh impassable in a carriage.

We thought you might be forced to take the cart road that comes out north of the church, but if it rains again tonight, they fear that the creek will cover the road.” There was a buzzing in Juliet’s ears as she forgot to breathe.

There are always two paths to an end. From the manor house, there were two roads that led to the village. One was a smaller, less traveled path often used by the wagons that hauled hay and grains from the fields in the fall. The other led to the main road, through the village and on toward London. There was an expectant pause, and Juliet realized the maid was waiting on an answer. “I had thought to take the main road,” she responded slowly, “but I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” “That’s what we all thought, of course, but you never know what’s in a person’s mind. What a shame if it rains on your wedding day. I suppose you’ll have to ride with the top up on the barouche after all, so it won’t matter which way you go.” “Perhaps my brother will send someone early tomorrow to survey the route and we can decide then.”

The correct one to choose is clear to those who seek it. Finished with the buttons, the girl turned Juliet around to pull the sleeves down her arms. “Here now,” she said, a concerned frown edging her brow. “Are you all right? Did you get a chill on the walk?” Bustling to the armoire, she pulled out a heavy velvet dressing gown and draped it over Juliet’s shoulders. “Have a seat by the fire, miss, and I’ll pop right back up with a pot

of tea.” Juliet didn’t bother to protest that she didn’t want tea. The maid’s task accomplished the end that she did want; to be left alone with her thoughts. Seeing the children in the village and speaking with Vadoma had brought things to a head. It was long past time to admit that the wedding had been a ruse. She’d agreed to it in the idiotic hope that when Marko learned of her plans, he would be jealous and demand that she honor their vows. She had waited patiently, just as she had for the past four years, but no miracle had occurred, nothing had changed. Vadoma had not been surprised by her news. If the old woman knew, the tribe knew. Marko knew. He was letting her go, just as he claimed he would. As she sat staring into the fire in the hearth, rain began to drum against the windows. It was a bad omen, she’d been told, for it to rain on a wedding day. Omens. Destiny. Fate. She no longer believed in any of them. All were total rubbish, fabricated by the weak of heart to explain why they had not the resolve to face the hard choices in life. One forged one’s own path in the world and stuck to it by sheer strength of will. Staying on that path, as Vadoma had predicted, was often difficult, but it was the only course to true happiness. ~~~ The rain did not stop. By morning, it was clear that an open carriage would not do for the bride’s trip to the church. Lord Stowe sent a coach, complete with gleaming brass details and his

family’s crest on the door. The donning of the wedding gown took longer than Juliet had expected and by the time it was finished, her brother was pounding on the door to her room. “Hurry along, Juliet,” he shouted. “Reginald will think you’ve changed your mind.” “Almost done,” she called loudly. The last thing she wanted today was for him to hover around the bride’s skirts. “Just the veil to pin on. Please wait by the coach.” She sighed with relief as she heard his boots clumping down the stairs. Her hands slowed at the task of placing the last of the hair pins. Finished, she turned slowly around the room, taking in the familiar curtains at the window and the chair by the fireplace. She had expected to feel some unhappiness at leaving her childhood home, but instead she felt a small measure of relief. Straightening her shoulders, she turned toward the door. It was time to follow her path. ~~~ Marko sat on his horse under the steady dripping of the oak trees, cursing the foul English weather in every language he knew. He needed to maintain agility and so wore no cloak to shed the rain. Soaked to the skin, cold and in a raging temper, it seemed to him the carriage would never make its appearance. When it finally rounded the corner, he was relieved to note there was only a driver and one rider who had dropped some distance behind, most likely to avoid being splashed by the wheels. His grip on the reins tightened, his muscles tensed in readiness. At the right moment, he

kicked his horse into motion. He broke through the trees with a loud yell, the battle cry cutting through the cool morning air. The horse between the shafts of the coach reared in terror. The driver sawed at the reins, desperately trying to control the animal. “Here now!” Marko heard someone shout. “What’s this?” James. He’d recognize the man’s voice anywhere. That last conversation with him had haunted him for years. Rather than deterring him, it strengthened his resolve. The man might have won once, but this time, he was determined to be the victor. Riding his horse to the side of the coach he stood tall in the stirrups and grasped the hand rail, swinging himself up beside the driver. The man was younger than he’d expected, little more than a youth and he felt a moment’s compunction. “If you dismount now,” he said with lethal intent, “I won’t be forced to throw you from the carriage.” The man’s eyes widened in terror and he scrambled across the seat, tripping in his haste to get down from the vehicle and landing on all fours in the mud. Grabbing for the dropped reins, Marko whacked them across the horse’s back with a loud snap. The animal bolted. The coach bumped along the rutted track with his horse running beside. Behind him, he heard James shout and give chase. Cursing the horse, he reached for the whip in its holder and snapped it over the animal’s head. Picking up a little speed, the carriage slid in the slick mud as it rounded a curve. He ducked, narrowly avoiding being knocked from his seat by a low-hanging limb. Straightening their course, he glanced behind to see James closing in.

One wheel sank into a particularly deep hole, nearly jerking the reins from his hands and rattling his teeth together. Marko spared a moment to hope that Juliet was holding on tightly and was unharmed. Stealing the bride was one thing, but breaking bones in the process was something she was unlikely to forgive quickly. A crack sounded behind him and the whoosh of a pistol ball sounded close by his ear. His thoughts blanked for a moment, unable to believe what had happened before a blaze ignited in his head. James was shooting at him. Shooting at Juliet. Fear and an unholy anger worked together to give him the strength to bring the frightened horse to a standstill. Crouching beside the seat, he waited for James to ride beside the carriage. When the other man was close enough, he leaped. He hit him in the chest and knocked him to the ground. They landed in a tangle of limbs and thrashing fists. “Are you insane?” Marko demanded as he dodged a blow aimed at his temple. “You shot at your sister.” James grunted as a punch landed across his ribs. “Not her. You.” Marko grasped the front of the other man’s jacket and jerked him to his feet. “You fool, you could have injured her.” “Better that than have her in the hands of a dirty gypsy.” He’d heard the derogatory term so often that he barely regarded it. He bobbed and weaved as James continued to lash out at him with wild, untutored swings. Skipping back a few steps, he caught his breath. “Perhaps we should let her decide.” “Perhaps you should go to hell, you coward. Stand up

and fight!” James lunged at him and Marko stepped into the attack, bringing his fist up to connect with the man’s chin with a sound thwack. Shock crossed James’ features as he fell backward into the mud. He sat up, shaking his head as if to check that all was still intact. He shot Marko a belligerent glare. “She’s betrothed to Reginald. You will let us pass.” Marko had to admit to a measure of respect for the man. Even lying in the mud, he demanded that his will be followed. A Rom, however, knew no master and recognized no other’s authority. Rubbing the knuckles which would be bruised tomorrow, he considered how best to handle James. As much as he’d like to send him to perdition, Juliet was unlikely to want to cut all ties with her family. He held his hands out to his sides in a gesture of openness. “If that is her desire, then it will be so.” Reaching a hand down to James, he added with calm assurance. “I will escort her to the church myself and deliver her into the arms of Lord Stowe, if she but asks me to.” The other man ignored his hand, pushing himself up without assistance. “She will.” Overlooking his curt tone, Marko turned and strode to the carriage. Twisting the handle, he jerked open the door. Inside, a woman cowered into the corner, her face hidden by a thick bridal veil. “Oh my gawd,” she shrieked. “Lord help us, a heathen!” Marko fell back a step in the face of such noisy female hysteria. “What the devil?” James moved to stand beside him. His expression blanked as he stared into the interior of the carriage. “That’s not Juliet.”

Marko tried, but he couldn’t restrain the guffaw that shook him. He clutched his middle and bent over, trying to contain the combination of laughter and relief. James was not amused. “Where’s my sister?” he demanded of the girl. “Tell me this instant.” “Careful,” Marko warned, his voice not quite steady, “you’ll set her off again.” The girl seemed to regain some measure of calm as she recognized James. She pushed the heavy veil back from her face, exposing eyes wide with dread. “Oh, sir, I’m that sorry, but she made me do it.” “Yes, I’m sure, but where is she?” Looking from one man to the other, the girl burst into tears. “She told me not to tell. I don’t want to be let go from my p-position.” “You won’t have a position if we don’t find your mistress,” James said with callous disregard for the girl’s feelings. “London,” she offered hurriedly. “She’s gone to join the theatre. Said she’d earn her living as an actress rather than be wed to someone she didn’t want.” “The stagecoach.” The words were forced from James on the tail end of a groan. “Quick, girl, what time does the coach leave?” “The one from the Cock and Hound, sir?” At his curt nod, she told him. “I’m away.” Running for his horse, James swung up into the stirrups and turned the animal’s head toward the village. “Pray god I’m in time.” Marko watched him go, his lids dropped slightly over

his eyes as he considered whether to follow. Pursing his lips, he gave the piercing whistle he used to call his horse. The animal came from where he’d been nibbling on a bit of spring grass. Putting one foot in the stirrup, he sprang into the saddle then turned back toward the open door of the carriage. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that she’d been embroiled in this fiasco. In fact, he owed her a debt of gratitude, and he always paid his debts. His voice as gentle as he could make it, he said, “Wait here. I’ll send the driver back to take you home.”

~ Chapter 5 ~ Juliet paced beneath the spreading limbs of an oak tree. Her cloak was soaked through and she was wet and cold. Worse yet, she was beginning to feel like the world’s biggest dupe. Marko had not arrived. The old woman had led her false. There was no other path. No other hope. She would be forced to crawl back to Reginald and beg him to marry her. Since it was unlikely that he would do so after the embarrassment of being left standing at the altar, what remained was a dwindling list of unpleasant choices. Given that she had no talent for needlework, drawing or cooking, the story she’d concocted for her maid might yet become the truth. London and the debased life of an actress might be the only course. She could only hope that she had enough bloom left to attract a wealthy protector. Her fingers twined together as her nerves tightened. She forced them apart and crossed her arms under her cloak, hunching into herself for warmth. Soon she would have to seek shelter and dry clothes. The gypsy camp was closest, but she cringed inside at the thought of appearing there again. Reaching the drip edge of the tree, she twisted and began to pace back the other way. A man stepped out from behind the huge old tree trunk. A startled scream escaped her before she recognized him.

“Luca, what are you doing here?” She craned her neck to see around him. “Is Marko with you?” The older man didn’t answer, just approached her slowly, his arms held out to his sides. His gaze shifted to something behind her and she whirled, startled to find two more men just a few steps behind her. One of them was Marko. Her instant of joy turned quickly to confusion. “You’re covered in mud,” she said with disbelief. He laughed, a light sound, full of joy. He bowed deeply from the waist in a gesture no longer seen in the courts of Europe. “I live only to serve, milady.” The suspicion that he was laughing at her stretched her taut nerves beyond endurance. Abruptly, she forgot how glad she was to see him. “I don’t recall asking you to roll in the pigsty.” He eased close enough to her that she could see a glint in his dark eyes that might have been humor or arousal or some combination of both. “Your brother objected to my stealing Lord Stowe’s coach.” He cocked his head to one side as if considering the matter. “Or rather, what we thought was in it.” “You fought?” Anxiety shaded her voice. “Are you injured?” He held his arms out to his sides and turned in one smooth motion. “As you can see, only my pride.” One corner of his mouth tilted in a wry grimace. “However, you might need to hire a new maid.” Juliet had had enough of the ambiguous phrasing of the gypsy tribe. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides and she stomped her foot. “Tell me what happened, in plain words, if you know them.” Reaching for her hands, he brought them up to his lips.

With gentle care, he loosened her fingers from the tight balls in which she held them. “Ah, my Juliet, I fear plain words will not do you justice.” He pressed a warm kiss into the palm of one hand. “I would rather wax as lyrical as a bard of old, comparing your beauty to a moonbeam or the sparkle in your eye to a smattering of stardust.” As he laid his mouth against her other palm, his voice dropped in timbre. “Wouldn’t you rather hear those words from my lips?” Her fingers curled around his reflexively as a spark of heat ignited in her veins. Color rose in her face as she realized that the other men could hear. “Don’t tease, Marko. I can’t bear it right now.” “My brilliant love. Your plan has worked only too well. Your brother is on a wild goose chase to London and you are here with me.” “Serves him right,” she muttered. “I agree wholeheartedly, though I would have liked to have been included in the arrangements. I felt a royal fool when I opened the door to that coach.” “Serves you right too.” He went still for a moment. “I stand chastised.” Then his lips quirked in a smile that took her breath. “Might I ask what I am being berated for? Like the thieving gypsy I am, I came to kidnap my bride from under the nose of another.” His bride. Her heart swelled at the words, but she wasn’t ready to let him see the gladness in her face. With an effort, she jerked her fingers from his. Hunching one shoulder, she said with challenge in her tone, “How was I to know you’d arrive? You appeared ready to let me marry Lord Stowe.”

“You should have trusted me, my love, as you must trust me now.” She stiffened in suspicion, but hesitated a second too long. From behind her, someone grasped her arms, dragging them behind her. She turned her head to see that it was Luca holding her. “What are you doing?” she demanded as he tied her wrists together with a length of twisted cloth. She struggled against the hold while Marko pulled a kerchief from around his neck and approached her. “No, don’t–” She broke off as he thrust the cloth between her teeth and tied it behind her head, gagging her. She stared into his face, trying to read the emotion there. His lips were pressed together in a firm line, his dark gaze sharp with an intensity that caused her heart to trip on its own beat. Had he tricked her? Rumors abounded that gypsy tribes made their money by kidnapping. If he planned on ransoming her back to her brother, he’d find James was unlikely to pay. Lord Stowe, on the other hand, might pay handsomely for the chance at revenge. Marko reached for her face, cupping both her cheeks in his hands. She jerked back from his touch, trying to scream at him to release her, but the cloth muffled the sounds to gibberish. The fact that she looked foolish made her angry and she kicked out at him, the toe of her shoe colliding with the soft leather of his boot near the knee. “Perhaps we should tie her feet as well,” the other man said with laughter tinting his tone. “A more unwilling bride I’ve never seen.” “Easy, my love,” Marko said under his breath for her ears only. “You will not be harmed.” It was then that she understood. A gypsy betrothal was

usually short and often ended when the girl was taken from her bed and delivered to her future husband’s vardo. He had failed to kidnap her from the coach, so he was doing so now. Since she did not have family who would barter with him for the bride price, this was the most public declaration of his intention to wed her that he could make. As if he saw the understanding dawn in her eyes, Marko turned and whistled for his horse. When he was mounted, the other men lifted her up, placing her in his arms. “In two weeks, we meet again” he said to the men as he gathered the reins tightly. “Until then, safe travels, phralale!” They echoed the blessing as Marko let the horse have its head, and the clearing disappeared as the green of the forest surrounded them. Heedless of the drying mud on Marko’s shirt, Juliet turned her face into his chest, partly for protection from the low-hanging branches and partly for the sheer pleasure it gave her. She was uncomfortable, but she no longer cared. Marko’s heart beat strongly against her cheek, his arms held her secure and she wanted nothing more from life. They rode in silence for some time. After a while, she realized that they were not going to the gypsy camp. When she raised her head, Marko looked down inquiringly, then exclaimed softly under his breath. “Nearly there, sweet. Then I’ll make it up to you.” She relaxed against him again. When he pulled the horse to a stop, she saw a large vardo parked beside a slow-running stream. There was no sign of the others. He slid from the horse with her in his arms and strode to the wagon, opening the door and depositing her on her feet

inside. Shutting the door behind them, he released her from the bonds, allowing her to take her first good breath of air. With gentle fingers, he rubbed at the marks left on her cheeks until her face felt nearly normal. “Where is everyone else?” she asked to break the silence. “Scattered to the four winds.” His gaze focused on her red lips. “If we were to capture a nobleman’s bride, we knew the tribe would have to disappear for a while. You and I will be well-hidden here for a few days, then we’ll start the journey to the meeting place.” A slow blush started up her chest as she considered how she and Marko could spend several days alone. She half-turned from him, rubbing at her wrists to restore feeling to her hands. “You could have told me. I fret myself to stitches wondering how I was to bear my wedding night with Lord Stowe.” “I sent Vadoma to alert you to the plan.” “That old woman?” she scoffed with mock annoyance. “She scared me witless with her talk of paths and destiny. An inability to speak plainly seems to be a trait that is taught in your tribe from birth.” He bent his dark head toward her, his breath warm against her nape. “Then let me speak pure truth now.” His hands grasped her gently by the shoulders and he turned her to face him. Placing one bent finger under her chin, he raised her face to his. He stood for a moment, looking down at her features as if seeing her for the first time. “I never want to sleep another night without you by my side or wake to another morning without your sweet smile to greet me. I promise to watch over you and protect you the rest of our days if you will agree to stay with me.”

Juliet stared up into his beautiful dark face, afraid that this was another dream and the exquisite words would evaporate upon her awakening. “What has changed since the night I visited the tribe?” His hands tightened on her shoulders, the grip almost certain to leave red marks on her skin. “When I heard that you were marrying that gadjo, I wanted to rip his heart out.” He grimaced and released a long shuddering breath, his grasp gentling. “I returned to England to lay your memory to rest. I thought I’d find you married with a brood of children and that I’d finally be able to move on. Instead I fell even deeper under your spell.” He placed both hands against her face, holding her still. “You are mine, Juliet. You always have been. If you run back home, I will follow. I will snatch you from your bed and make sweet love to you until you moan my name and beg me to keep you close forever.” She noticed that her hands were shaking as she raised them to rest against his chest. “Will the tribe accept this? I could not bear it if you lost your position as Rom baro because of me.” He was silent for a moment. “The world is changing. I have long considered buying an estate in the north of Spain. We can raise horses there, and in the summer, the tribe can travel to sell them. It will be a place where gypsies are safe. Where our children will be safe,” he added softly. “Would you like that?” She nodded, unable to speak for the tears that rose to lodge themselves painfully in her throat. He dropped his head so that their faces were close, almost touching. “Then tell me.” The deep timbre of his voice shivered along her nerves

as her fingers inched up his chest to clutch the edges of his open collar. “I am bonded to you now and forever,” Juliet said as she tugged him down, their lips almost touching. “And I you, love,” he whispered as their mouths met. ~~~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Lindy Corbin appears to be a mild-mannered accountant, but inside her beats the heart of an adventurer, fated to climb the tallest monuments in the world. Alas, she ascends these stairs alone as friends and family wisely use the elevator. When not dreaming of traveling to 1000 places, she lives in the lush oasis of South Florida, where sunshine and all the odd characters it attracts form a sizzling backdrop for her contemporary stories. Lindy published her first novel, Auction Affair, in 1988 with Pageant Books. Babies and bills intervened, but finally, she is weaving words together again and avidly searching the internet for photos of the hottest heroes for her book covers. ~~ Discover more quality romances then purchase direct (and risk-free) from your favorite outlet(s). See the Steel Magnolia Press website at www.steelmagnoliapress.com. ~~ Subscribe to Fresh Leaves, the Steel Magnolia Press newsletter, to be notified of new releases and subscriberonly specials: http://eepurl.com/gCgrX. (You can also subscribe from the Steel Magnolia Press

website.) ~~