The Gypsy Bride Read online

  “Here kitty, kitty,” she crooned. “Come to Henrietta, nice kitty.”

  Nothing moved. Listening, she heard only the soft buzzing of bees.

  “Come to me now, Mercury,” she coaxed in a singsong voice, “If you know what is good for you!”

  From the corner of her eye Henrietta caught the slight sway of grass, and then a flash of black fur. Mercury bounded from his hiding place, scampering toward the woods. Again she gave chase after the ill-featured cat, running along the stream and dashing into the wooded area. Although her pursuit was highly unbecoming and shocking for a lady, she had no choice. And truth be told, she found the chase rather exhilarating.

  She was completely out of breath by the time the chase ended with the fat black cat scurrying up an ancient oak tree—the largest oak Henrietta had ever seen. Panting, she leaned against the rough broad trunk and looked about.

  The homely cat had led her into an idyllic spot. Hogweed bursting with clusters of bright white flowers sprouted from the silky grass bordering a bubbling spring. But she had no time to enjoy the scenery.

  “Do you expect me to climb up there after you?” she demanded, glaring up at the cat.

  Mercury meowed. His green eyes gleamed maliciously before he turned away with a definite air of indifference to lick his paw.

  Henrietta examined the tree. The lower limbs were thick and sturdy. Although she hadn’t climbed a tree since she and Phillip were children, she thought she could reach Mila’s malevolent black cat. But she gave him one more opportunity to come down on his own accord.

  She addressed him sternly, as if he were a misbehaving child. “Come down. Now.”

  He ignored her.

  “Won’t you please?”

  The cat gave no indication that he’d heard her plea. She gave a puff of frustration.

  “Well then, do not climb any further, you naughty, vile kitty!”

  Mercury looked down disdainfully.

  Unwilling to allow an ill-featured cat to best her, she removed her slippers and shed her brocade vest. If Mercury was not safely tied to her van when Mila returned, there would be trouble. And Henrietta had vowed to be no trouble.

  She tied her skirts and shinnied up the tree trunk, relieved to learn her childhood skill had not been lost. With only minor scrapes and bruises, she reached a branch wide enough to sit on. Mercury leisurely groomed himself a limb above her.

  “Come, queer looking kitty. Come to Henrietta.”

  He jumped up to the next limb.

  “Hateful kitty!” Henrietta did not like heights. She sat on the wide bough wondering how she would climb down once she had Mercury in her arms. One step at a time, she told herself. First she must capture the cat. She hiccupped.

  “Come to Aunt Henrietta,” she coaxed. “I’ll find you cream. A plump field mouse, perhaps?”

  “Do you talk to the trees, Lady Henrietta?”

  At the unexpected sound of Lucien’s booming baritone, Henrietta made the mistake of looking down quickly—and regretting the movement even more quickly.

  She became so light-headed she thought she would swoon and fall. “Good gracious! You startled me!”

  The Gypsy King stood below, hands planted on hips, gazing up at her with a bemused smile. His midnight hair, shimmering in the sunlight, took on the sheen of a starling’s wing. His golden earring glimmered seductively, and his shoulders appeared twice as broad from her bird’s-eye view.

  “I suppose there is a reason why you have climbed to that particular perch?”

  Embarrassed to be discovered up a tree, unnerved to see how high she had climbed, and disturbed at the way her pulse spurted at the sight of the compelling Gypsy King, Henrietta spoke without thinking. Instead of replying sweetly, she lashed out angrily. “Must you continually sneak up on me?”

  “Apparently it is a new habit of mine. Perhaps if you stayed out of bushes and trees it would not happen. What are you doing up there?”

  “Mila’s cat ran from me and now I must rescue him. If I do not return him, she will hex me for certain.”

  Lucien chuckled and flashed her a wide grin. She gazed down at his upturned face. His teeth gleamed white, an arresting contrast against his dark, rugged features. She met his eyes and her heart did a strange little dance.

  “The cat is above you,” he said.

  “I know that,” she replied, snapping out of her reverie. She had not meant to sound testy.

  “Can you reach him?”

  “I think so.” Henrietta lifted her gaze to the branch above. Mercury looked down on her, his protruding green eyes held no compassion for her predicament.

  “Can you get down?”

  “I... think so.” She hiccupped.

  “You may need my help.”

  Fearing her descent might not be graceful, or fit for a king’s eyes, she begged off. “I think not. You are a busy man and I do not need to trouble you. Please, be on your way. Do not worry over me.”

  “But I have arrived at my destination. I came to bathe in the spring.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. A May bug whirred noisily by.

  “By chance could you return later?” she asked sweetly.

  Before he could reply. Mercury suddenly jumped into Henrietta’s lap. She shrieked as she clutched at the wide branch with one trembling hand, and the cat with the other.

  “Excellent!” Lucien called. “You’ve got him. Now begin your descent very slowly.”

  She looked down at the next limb. And hiccupped.

  The Gypsy King shook his head. “I heard that”

  “It cannot be helped.”

  “Hold the cat in one arm,” he ordered.

  “I cannot.”

  “If you climb to the next bough down, you can jump from there into my arms.”

  “Jump? It is much too far!” she cried.

  “I’ll catch you.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You can. Now, climb down slowly, one foot at a time. Put your right foot on the limb below,” he coached. “Stretch your leg.”

  Shaking and hiccupping, Henrietta shook her head slowly, afraid to make any movement that might scare the cat and send her own rigid body plunging to the ground.

  While she agonized over her predicament, a blackbird sang, the clear spring water sparkled in the sunlight and the flat-faced cat howled.

  Lucien stood back and held out his arms, demonstrating he was prepared to catch Henrietta and break her fall. His stance brought him close to the spring.

  “One more limb and you will fall directly into my arms.”

  “Is there no ladder with the caravan?”

  “What use would we have of a ladder? Come now, no Gypsy woman would fear a small jump like this.”

  “I am not yet quite a complete Gypsy woman.”

  Biting her lip and clutching an angry and frightened black cat in one arm, she slowly stretched a leg down and shakily made her way to the lower branch.

  With her skirt hitched up, Lucien could not help but notice her trim ankles and the sweet curves of the English runaway’s calves. The unanticipated sight stirred a sudden warmth deep inside him.

  He cleared his dry throat, annoyed with himself for having diverted his attention from where it should rightly be. “You’ve done it. Good! I knew you could. Now jump.”

  “Jump?” she repeated as if he were truly mad.

  “Perhaps if you climbed down one branch lower.”

  She made a croaking sound.

  His heart went out to her.

  Unwilling to risk being totally bewitched by her soulful eyes and tempting lips, Lucien had kept his distance from Henrietta since she’d joined the caravan. He relied on Mila, who reported daily on the girl’s progress. From all accounts she did as she was told and never complained.

  She’d removed her gold brocade vest for the climb, but the bright swirl of skirts she wore put Lucien in mind of a sunset in motion. Gold doubloon earrings dangled provocatively from small, dainty lobes, stopping
just short of her shoulders. Dark kohl lined her eyes. He wondered when and how a simple application of the powdery stuff had turned an innocent blue gaze into a sultry invitation.

  Although blue eyes were not common among the tribes, Lady Henrietta could be mistaken for a Gypsy woman—as long as she did not speak.

  She hiccupped.

  And hiccupped.

  “Come down one branch more, Henrietta,” he coaxed.

  “No.”

  “Yes. I will count down and when I reach one, close your eyes and jump. Ten ...”

  “No!”

  “Nine ...”

  “No!”

  Lucien changed tactics, counting slowly, giving her time to summon her courage. He knew she had it in her; she had already shown herself to be a plucky woman.

  She hiccupped hard enough to shake the leaves on the tree.

  “One.”

  With eyes squeezed shut, Lady Henrietta Hadley fell into his arms. The momentum knocked Lucien back into the spring.

  Henrietta screamed.

  Lucien shouted from the shock of hitting the icy-cold water.

  Mercury wailed and fought with the fury of a lion to free himself.

  Even so, Lucien never lost his grasp on the lady, and she continued to cling to the cat. They bobbed to the surface. He held fast—until the Persian clawed him. With an angry hiss the enraged feline scratched his cheek.

  “Yeow!” Lucien howled and reacted instinctively, tossing the animal to shore.

  “What have you done?” Henrietta demanded, treading water, gulping air and looking wildly for the cat. “Where is he?”

  Lucien pointed to the bank. Mercury had landed on all four paws.

  “The damn thing drew blood,” he barked, gingerly feeling his cheek as he treaded water.

  “Let me see.”

  She turned to him then, concern reflected in the light jeweled pools of her eyes. Her lips were blue and her teeth chattered as she gently wiped the blood from his cheek with her fingertips.

  “ ’Tis only a scratch,” he said, tearing his eyes from her lips. No Gypsy magic would be required to change the color of her lips from blue to pink. He knew how to restore their natural rosy shade. A powerful longing to warm Henrietta’s sweet bowed, blue lips swept through Lucien.

  The force of their fall into the spring had loosened the drawstring of the lady’s muslin chemise and pushed the short lacy sleeves down. Beads of cold water glistened on her bare shoulders and creamy cleavage. Goose bumps blanketed her fair flesh.

  “ ’Tis a deep scratch,” she said. “Mercury is a wicked cat.”

  “Never mind. It will heal soon enough.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek.

  She reacted to his touch with a swift intake of breath and lowered her eyes. Tight, water-soaked curls adhered to her neck. Even with the color drained from her face and quivering blue lips, she presented a lovely vision. To linger with her would be pure folly.

  “Come. Let us sit on the bank and dry before you become ill.”

  Before she could protest, Lucien gathered the demure Gypsy imposter into his arms. Swimming side-stroke to the bank, he held her lithe body in spoon fashion against his. Despite the cool water, he grew warm—a warmth that spread from his groin to the tips of his fingers, the tops of his toes.

  Lucien lifted Henrietta to the bank before hauling himself from the cold spring.

  “Thank you, my lord.” She shook the tangles from her wet hair and settled on the grass as regally as if it were a throne. “You are a true gallant.”

  “My pleasure.” Her muslin chemise clung to her firm, full breasts. Lucien could not drag his gaze from her taut dusky nipples straining against the thin fabric. A shiver of delight ran through him, followed by an explosion of heat and desire. He caught the deep flush on Henrietta’s cheeks.

  Turning quickly from the source of temptation, Lucien fell to the ground to lie on his stomach beside her on the grass. Raising up on his elbows, he braced his body for a better view of her.

  “Tell me how a man becomes Gypsy King,” she said, primly spreading her skirts to dry in the sun.

  “It is a long story.” He had no wish to talk about his world when, here and now, Henrietta and he shared the same peaceful place. Furthermore, he had no wish to discuss what he could not change.

  “I do believe we have time,” she coaxed. Evidently exhausted by his adventure, Mila’s cat curled up at the lady’s feet fast asleep.

  Lucien shook his head. Whenever he spoke of the loss of his brother, the old grief twisted through his body.

  “It was not my choice. Wolfgang, my older brother should be leading our tribe, but he was lost and presumed dead during the English conflict with France. I inherited the position, a role better suited to Steffan.”

  She pulled a deep green blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. “Steffan?”

  “My younger brother.” Lucien rolled to his side, propping his head in one hand. “Steffan desires to be king, but he is too young, too green and much too impulsive. It will be a long time before Steffan is ready to lead.”

  She smiled at him, a soft, tantalizing parting of her lips. “Your tribe is fortunate to have you.”

  He closed his eyes against Lady Henrietta’s charms. For a moment he wondered if Mila and her foul-smelling potions had anything to do with the way he was feeling. Indolent. Warm.

  It might have been the heat of the sun, the purring of the cat, the soft buzz of the bees or the smell of sweet spring grass, but Lucien soon fell asleep. Night after night he suffered from insomnia, yet he drifted off easily under the afternoon sun, in the company of a headstrong English Lady.

  He woke with a start.

  Judging from the position of the sun, he’d slept for over an hour.

  Henrietta was asleep on the grass beside him, her silken hair fanned out about her shoulders, her breathing a soft steady sigh. Lucien’s gaze fell to her breasts, rising and falling against the damp bodice of her chemise.

  Desire claimed him, immediate and full blown. One stolen kiss while she slept. What harm could come of it? Just a brush of his lips against her full sweet mouth. She would never know.

  Choosing to forget who and what he was for the moment, Lucien lowered his head to taste her.

  What began as a brush of lips, slowly deepened. To his surprise, Lady Henrietta’s lips parted beneath his. She made the soft purring sounds of a sleeping woman enthralled with a dream. His heat intensified; his heart threatened to leap from his chest.

  Wildflowers perfumed the air, butterflies danced and swooped above them. What better time and place to make love to Henrietta than beneath the golden sun on nature’s bed of soft green grass?

  But before Lucien could act on his thought, he heard a familiar voice.

  It wasn’t Lady Henrietta’s.

  “My, my,” the interloper tsked. “What have we here?”

  Chapter Three

  It was near midnight when Lucien drained the last of his wine. Several goblets of the fruity burgundy had not served to dull his senses, nor the memory of Henrietta’s lips. Another sleepless night loomed ahead of him.

  He could not explain what had come over him by the spring, nor why he was drawn to the runaway girl’s delicate beauty. She certainly suffered no fragility of spirit. Was it possible he found Henrietta irresistible because she was forbidden to him?

  In any case he did not intend to discuss his odd behavior with his brother—who obviously was waiting for him to do just that.

  Steffan lounged opposite him, his lanky frame spread across his bed of plump pillows and down. “Such introspection,” he observed with a grimace. “You make boring company, brother.”

  “Are you not used to it by now?” Lucien asked.

  “You could liven our evening by telling me about Lady Hadley. Despite the danger she presents to our little band, she appears quite a fetching young woman even when damp.”

  “There is nothing to tell.”
/>   “Surely you jest. You seemed quite taken with her when I discovered you with her this afternoon.”

  “I do not know what came over me,” Lucien admitted, warming at the memory of Henrietta’s lips.

  “Has Mila given you any uncommon potion to drink of late?”

  “No. ’Twas only a momentary lapse on my part. Say no more.”

  His brother waved a dismissive hand. “You have been too long without a woman.”

  “But unlike you, I am a man of discipline.”

  “A hungry man could be tempted by a three-foot gargoyle. And Lady Hadley is far from such a creature. She is extremely attractive in her pale Anglo-Saxon way.”

  Lucien bolted upright. Steffan loved the ladies, and in return, it seemed they cherished his boyish charm.

  While almost as tall as Lucien, he had not yet filled out. His shoulders were not as broad, his chest not as muscular, but he laughed easily and teased the young women with a clever turn of a phrase.

  For reasons he did not understand, it was not always easy for Lucien to be objective when it came to his younger brother. In appearance, Steffan was not strikingly handsome, but not unattractive either. He wore his long chestnut brown hair parted in the middle and he was fair-skinned like their mother. His wardrobe was more English gentry than gypsy.

  But what troubled Lucien most was the mischief that seemed to perpetually twinkle in his brother’s smoky gray eyes.

  “Do not place designs on Lady Henrietta,” he warned. “She will not be with us long.”

  “Designs? You accuse me of designs simply because I remark favorably on her appearance?”

  “Your randy youth and reputation give the lie to your noble tongue.”

  “Randy? Me? This afternoon I caught you—”

  “Enough,” he snapped. “Rest assured I shall not surrender to such an impulse again. For the remainder of her journey with us I mean to distance myself from Lady Henrietta.”

  “If that is so, she will need someone to guide her as we travel.”