The Gypsy Bride Read online

  “You do not miss your balls and social life?”

  “No.” He would be surprised to learn she had never had a season. Her Aunt Beatrice enjoyed the quiet life and preferred to remain in Bath year-round. As a result, Henrietta’s social life had been restricted to infrequent outings at the assembly rooms.

  She thought she glimpsed a glint of admiration in Lucien’s eyes. She knew by its warmth that his smile was truly genuine.

  “I did not believe you would endure our life more than one day,” he confessed.

  “Each day prepares me for the new life ahead of me.”

  He took her hand and turned it gently in his palm. “You do not mind having calluses?”

  Henrietta shrugged, enjoying his hand holding hers. “It cannot be helped. It is what comes with carrying firewood and water.”

  “You are accustomed to being served, and now you are a servant. You wake in the morning without a fire burning in the fireplace and a tray of hot cocoa beside your bed.”

  “There are more important things than cocoa and a warm room.” At the moment, the tender way in which the Gypsy King still held her hand, seemed one of them.

  “I hope I have not done a disservice to you by aiding you in your escapade.”

  She looked into his eyes, black as velvet and suddenly somber. “It is not an escapade, Lucien. I am embarking on a dream.”

  His intense gaze fixed on hers.

  Henrietta felt the heat of his hand. She listened to her heart beat in the thick silence that had fallen between them. One. Two. Three... .

  He released her hand.

  A robin chirped from a branch somewhere in the tree above them. A kestrel flew in lazy circles over the meadow.

  Seconds ago, Lucien had come within a heartbeat of surrendering to the need to feel Henrietta’s lips against his once more. He’d been dangerously close. Pressing his lips tightly together, he stood.

  “We must return to the caravan. I’ve been away too long.”

  She placed her hand in the one he offered and he pulled the smiling lady to her feet.“I have enjoyed myself.”

  “Good.” Lucien could offer her nothing but a terse response.

  “Someday I shall enliven my grandchildren with the story of how I rode out on a morning with a handsome Gypsy King.”

  She thought him handsome! Henrietta’s bright smile and bold compliment made him feel as if the sun had carved a niche and shone from within him. The smile he returned came from deep within a wildly leaping heart

  They had just reached the road when he saw the dust of an approaching rider.

  “Someone comes, Henrietta.”

  “Let us ride out.”

  “No, it’s too late. Keep your horse behind mine, bring the shawl over your head and keep your head down.” He issued his orders quickly and quietly, hoping this time she would obey him.

  Bracing for the encounter, Lucien turned his attention to the road ahead. Straightening in the saddle, he concentrated on the horse and rider headed directly at them.

  The stranger pulled his horse to a stop several yards from Lucien. “Ho, sir. Good mornin’ to ye.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Are ye from these parts?” the man asked.

  “No. We are English Gypsies on the move.”

  “Gypsies, heh?” The stranger hunched over his saddle. He was a burly man with a full brown beard, a superior air and a steady gaze. “Ye might be able to help me in your travels.”

  “How is that?”

  “My name is Worthington.” He glanced back at Lady Henrietta but dismissed her quickly. “Charles Worthington. I’m a Bow Street Runner and I’m after a missin’ person.”

  “Who do you seek?” Lucien asked, attempting to keep the disgust from his voice. The Bow Street Runners hunted their prey for a fee or reward. He considered them little more than ruffians, usually not much better than the rogues they sought

  “A young lady of quality. Her family wants to keep it all hush-hush. But I’m tellin’ ye now, if you come upon her, or can provide information on ’er whereabouts, you’ll collect a fat reward.”

  Lucien’s blood turned to ice. Tension coiled through his veins. But outwardly he remained impassive. “Is that right?”

  “One hundred pounds with no questions asked.”

  “One hundred pounds should have the entire kingdom looking for the young lady.”

  “Do you read?”

  Lucien stiffened, as anger shot through him like the lance of a sharp blade. Gypsies were generally regarded as ignorant and uneducated. Knowing how he and his people were viewed did not make the slights any easier.

  “Yes. I read.”

  “Take this, then.” The runner moved his mount closer and shoved a sheet of paper into Lucien’s hands. “The girl we’re lookin’ to find is small and fair. Can’t be tellin’ by this but she has blue eyes and brown hair.”

  “Does this missing young lady have a name?”

  “Lady Henrietta Elizabeth Hadley. That’s ’er name. She’s the daughter of the late Marquis of Millbrooke.”

  Chapter Five

  Henrietta held her breath, as if not breathing might make her invisible. Except for the furious pounding other heart, a tense silence enveloped her companions on the bend in the road.

  She adjusted her shawl, edging it down to hide her face, lowering her head until she could only see the back of her horse’s neck.

  The light cheerful song of a thrush broke the eerie stillness. The flop and thump of Bay’s hooves as the mare shifted impatiently seemed to resonate.

  Lucien broke the silence with a low rumble. “For one hundred pounds, I shall be on the lookout for your lady.”

  The Bow Street Runner snorted. “I thought as much. A good day to you.” With an idle salute, and what could only be seen as a sneer, he dug his heels into his horse and rode off. He had hardly given a second look to Henrietta.

  When Worthington was safely away, she moved Ursa forward to Lucien’s side. “I did not realize my guardian would go to such lengths to recover me.”

  “He treasures you.”

  “He treasures the inheritance that cannot be mine,” she corrected. “Edward has made a bargain with the Earl of Oster. He will share in the bounty I bring through marriage.”

  “You might still enjoy some of that bounty if you return and marry the earl as your guardian wishes.”

  “Do you think I shall change my mind? No. I could never be happy with my fate in the hands of those two wicked men.”

  The dark Gypsy King cocked his head and raised a questioning brow. “Are you certain they are wicked?”

  “Yes.” Henrietta’s intuition had never failed her.

  “Why did your father not make better provisions for your future, do you suppose?” His eyes met hers in a penetrating study.

  Henrietta lowered her gaze. “After mother died, my father sent me to his sister. Aunt Beatrice to raise me.” She paused, unwilling to reveal too much. She did not wish to have Lucien’s pity. “Two years later he was killed in a hunting accident. I do not think my father expected such an early demise and so did not properly plan for it.”

  She neglected to mention that her father had not visited her once during the years before his death.

  Lucien reached over and covered her hands which rested on the pommel of her saddle. One large comforting hand engulfed both of hers. She could feel his warmth through her gloves.

  “You have our English Gypsy strength.”

  Henrietta raised her eyes to his and smiled. He had given her a great compliment. “Thank you.”

  With a rueful quirk of his lips, and apparent reluctance, he withdrew his hand. “Back to camp now. We must get underway as soon as possible.”

  “Wait!” Guilt roiled in the pit of her stomach like spoiled porridge. She must have her say before continuing. “I would not have insisted you take me on this journey if I had fully understood—”

  “In what contempt a Gypsy is held?” he interru
pted. “Henrietta, our culture is not understood and therefore feared. We are tolerated only for the entertainment we bring with our music and dance, for our skills as fortune-tellers and tinkers. And now and again for the horses we trade.”

  “ ’Tis unfair.”

  “Is life fair?”

  She chose to ignore his mocking tone. “I do not wish to put your tribe in further danger.”

  “The Bow Street Runner sat astride his mount only six feet away from you and did not discover you. These men are known for their brawn, not their keen intelligence. With proper precautions we have little to fear.”

  “There might be others, more cunning, searching for me.”

  “According to legend there is no more cunning an individual than a Gypsy,” he responded with a wry smile.

  “May I see the sketch?”

  He handed the flyer to her. “It is not a good likeness.”

  “But fair enough for a drawing done in haste,” she remarked with withering spirits.

  Lucien snatched the flyer back. “We shall burn it in one of the fires tonight.”

  “There are more. And the reward will attract others to look for me. The entire country may be searching for me soon.”

  “The entire country?” He hiked a mocking brow and cast a crooked grin. “Certainly, you go too far.”

  But she was unmoved by his attempt to make light of the situation. “I must leave the caravan.”

  “Lady Henrietta ...” His voice trailed off in an exasperated sigh. When he continued, it was in a decidedly terse tone. “I offered you my protection and you shall have it. I do not go back on my word. Furthermore, we have no time to waste quarreling. We must move on.”

  “But you planned to stay in Gloucester for two more days,” she argued, knowing the income from entertaining the villagers was important to the tribe.

  “We will make up our losses at the next village.”

  Still Henrietta persisted, unwilling to put Lucien’s people in jeopardy. Of equal concern, she feared causing dissension between the king and his small band.

  “My presence puts the tribe in far more danger than I ever imagined. You will be punished if I am found, perhaps others in the caravan as well. I am the one who should move on, and I shall.”

  “You propose to travel alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you intend to reach Liverpool?”

  She had no idea. “I shall disguise myself and travel as a stay lace girl. Or, perhaps I will masquerade as a boy again.”

  “I have seen your disguises. Say no more.”

  “Please listen—”

  “We shall depart for Tewksbury within the hour,” he barked. “Instead of going east, we shall turn west and make our way north through the heart of the Midlands.”

  She had no choice but to follow.

  The sun had dried the dew and warmed the air. It promised to be a fine spring day.

  Lucien glanced over his shoulder to be certain the silky skinned English beauty was behind him. He had learned by now Lady Henrietta could be quite contentious. She was a headstrong young woman who needed protection from herself, as well as her enemies.

  From a distance, she appeared exceptionally small astride his big mare Ursa—small and vulnerable.

  Lucien slowed to wait for her.

  As she came closer, he was struck by the anxious frown that wrinkled her brow. Her lips were tightly drawn. But her head remained high.

  An urgent and disconcerting need came over him to dismount, gather Henrietta in his arms and comfort her.

  But he was not prone to impulsive action like Steffan. A man who meant to lead wisely could not be ruled by emotions. And Lucien meant to lead wisely as long as he was responsible for his tribe.

  He would not jump off his horse, but neither would Lucien abandon the lady. Not only had he given his word to her, it was plain she needed his protection more than ever if she was to reach Liverpool.

  What once appalled him, he now considered plausible and the only course. Henrietta must have the opportunity to begin a new life in a country that welcomed adventurous souls such as hers.

  Just the thought of her lying with a shriveled old man gave Lucien chills—chills that washed against the walls of his heart and seeped beneath its barriers.

  His tribe would not be happy to leave Gloucester early. The performers would be angry with him. But by diverting from the original course and putting on speed, they still might make up the lost income in the next village.

  With haste they would reach Tewksbury by nightfall.

  “Come, my lady, fly with me!”

  * * * *

  The Severn and Avon Rivers met in the small village of Tewksbury. Henrietta rode beside Mila as the Gypsy caravan made its way to a site just north of town where it had camped before on the banks of the Avon.

  Mila’s van was old, as was her team of horses. The bumpy ride jarred Henrietta’s teeth but the sweeping country scenery was so lovely she could not complain; she could only marvel.

  By the time they arrived at the riverside spot, it was already dusk, too late to solicit business. The Gypsy band contented themselves to settle and rest.

  “I don’t know what ye’ve done to him, girlie.”

  Plainly vexed, Mila fussed as she pushed aside her plate after supper. With the threat of rain, they had taken their meager meal of bread, cheese and fruit inside the tent.

  The old woman’s bracelets clamored in a discordant jangle as she gathered Mercury into her lap. The unsightly cat instantly leaped out of the old woman’s robes and strolled to Henrietta’s side.

  “What do you mean?” Henrietta asked.

  “To Lucien. He’s behaving strangely. Same as that cat.” With a gleam of silver rings and jingling of bracelets, she pointed accusingly at Mercury, who yawned.

  “I... I have not done anything to affect Lucien’s behavior.”

  The tribe’s healer inclined her head. Her small dark eyes engaged in a narrowed study of Henrietta. “Ye haven’t been mixing any herbs by yourself, have you, girlie?”

  “Oh, no.”

  Realizing a knowledge of herbs and their healing power would help her in the new country, Henrietta took these lessons with her mentor seriously.

  Mila shot her a dark dubious frown.

  “I do not know the herbs well enough yet. And why should I be tempted to mix herbs by myself?”

  “Because the right combinations of plants can have magical effects.”

  “Magic? I do not believe in black magic, Mila.”

  “Not all magic is black.” The tiny, wrinkled woman reached into a bag behind her and withdrew a glass jar. She gave the blue jar to Henrietta.

  “What is this?”

  “Open it”

  Henrietta opened the jar and sniffed. “Roses. A wonderful fragrance of roses.”

  “Aye. “’Tis rose oil to rub into yer skin each evening before ye sleep and when you awake in the morning. Your skin will stay soft and you’ll always have the sweet scent of a rose.”

  Henrietta hesitated to point out that if the rose oil softened skin, Mila would be wise to use it herself. But perhaps it was too late to be of use for the old woman.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I shall begin to use it tonight.”

  “It is not an aphrodisiac.”

  “Good gracious, I would hope not!” She held the blue jar away from her, eyeing it as if it might attack her momentarily, wondering—an aphrodisiac?

  “Although some men may find it enticing.”

  “Really?” Would Lucien? It was her first thought and she promptly felt ashamed.

  “Aye.” Mila turned away, back to her sack. “Since we’ll not be making a shilling tonight, ye might as well learn to read fortunes.”

  Henrietta had no confidence in her ability to tell fortunes. Unwilling to offend Mila, however, she objected carefully. “I doubt I can learn the art. I am not a Gypsy, after all. I am only a gadji.”

  Frowning, Mila st
ared at her for a long silent moment. Even her ever-jangling bracelets remained still. “Do not remind me,” she hissed.

  “It’s ... It’s a new word I learned. Gadji.”

  Resembling the wicked witch of Pendle, Mila snatched Henrietta’s hand. “Watch and listen carefully, girlie. When you start telling fortunes and bringing in coin, half of everything you earn is mine.”

  “How is that?”

  “Who shelters and feeds ye?”

  Although she felt grateful, a tent, a pile of blankets and partridge stew on occasion did not seem to warrant Mila taking half her earnings.

  “You have given me a home. And I do appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Did I not tell you from the start ye wouldn’t be having high tea here?”

  “You did not exaggerate.”

  The old Gypsy’s eyes narrowed on her once more before she turned Henrietta’s hand palm up. “We begin.”

  “Mila, I really do not believe in—”

  “The ladies like to hear about love, the men want to know about fortune.”

  “I shall endeavor to remember—”

  “Hush and listen!” The querulous healer and fortune-teller lowered her head to within inches of her student’s palm. With one crooked finger she traced a faint line across her subject’s hand.

  Henrietta dipped her head for a closer view. “What are you doing?”

  “Everyone has lines in the palm of their hands. You create tales to tell of these lines to make the gentry happy. See, ye have a long lifeline...”

  The old crone’s voice trailed off as she peered closer.

  “The long line through the middle? That is the lifeline?”

  “Aye.”

  “I do not think I could tell anyone, should I discover a brief lifeline.”

  “Girlie, ye simply ignore it and tell ’em they will have great happiness.”

  “How do I know that? What line reveals happiness?”

  Pursing her wrinkled lips, Mila studied Henrietta as if she were dealing with a slow child. “Any line. Yer job is to give the lady or mister a piece of news they will pay you well for.”