Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3) (2 page)

Chapter 1

London

The room was dark but for the lone candle that flickered on the shiny surface of a round mahogany table. Twelve fashionably dressed people were seated at that table, and the silence was so pronounced that even the rustle of a taffeta gown drew attention. All twelve pairs of eyes were riveted on the old Gypsy woman dressed in black with golden coins dangling from her headdress. In a trance, she rocked back and forth while she waved a gnarled hand over a crystal ball.

Just outside the circle of light, Lord Michael DeWinter sat with a cynical expression on his face. He half smiled as the fortune-teller predicted wealth and happiness for Lady Lenora Reeves. Lenora already had the wealth, and she always glowed with happiness. Why not? She was spoiled and pampered by her mother and father—a beauty with many gentlemen vying for her attention. But Lord

Michael was not one of admirers. He found her too inexperienced for his taste and her conversations rather dull.

Lady Samantha, who was more to Lord Michael's liking, rose from her chair and approached him, smiling. "Come, Michael," she cajoled, taking his hand and urging him to come to the table. "Join us. It's all done for our amusement. Allow the Gypsy to tell your fortune."

Lady Samantha wore her dark hair pulled straight back from its widow's peak and secured with a pearl clip. Her eyes were dark brown, her skin creamy and flawless.

"Hardly my idea of entertainment," Michael said with a morose expression on his face. "That woman can no more see into the future than you or I. She makes her fortune by predicting what naive fools want to hear." He nodded toward the table contemptuously. "Observe how your guests hold on to her every word—I must congratulate you on such a successful party," he said mockingly.

Lady Samantha was crushed. She had planned this evening just for him. She was desperately in love with Lord Michael. She was certain she would have loved him even if he hadn't been born the only son of one of the most powerful families in Britain. He was tall and broad shouldered. His hair was almost as dark as hers. There was a dangerous, exciting power that emitted from him. When he entered a room, everyone watched him. And when he left a room, it became strangely empty.

Now, as she looked into his cold, green eyes, Lady Samantha saw no evidence of the love she desired. She had realized long ago that she would have to break through a tight reserve to reach his heart. She was jealous of every woman who flirted and fawned over him. She envisioned herself as his wife, and no one was going to stand in her way.

Thus far, Lord Michael had not committed to any woman, and Lady Samantha was determined that when he did, it would be to her.

Michael glanced back at the table where the fortuneteller held her audience spellbound, and he almost envied them their jovial mood. Nothing interested him for long, and this dinner party was becoming tedious.

"Michael," Lady Samantha said pleadingly, "I planned this evening just to amuse you. You can't know what I had to do to get Madame Zambana to attend my gala." She shuddered. "Imagine if you will, I personally rode to her house on Swinton Street to engage her for tonight. Madame Zambana has been the rage ever since Lady Wilhelmina used her to entertain her guests at a garden party last spring."

With a resigned sigh, Lord Michael rose to his full height and moved to the table. After he was seated beside Lady Samantha, he watched the old Gypsy wave her hands over a crystal ball and gaze into the depths as if she saw that which others could not see.

Madame Zambana smiled at Lady Garnet, who stared back at her with wide-eyed innocence. "You will obtain your heart's desire. The man you love also loves you. The two of you will live in wedded bliss, have many children, and grow to an old age together."

"Is it Charles?" the young girl asked, looking shyly at the man beside her.

The Gypsy pointed a bony finger at Lord Charles Bonnom. "That is the man who will be your husband," she said in a mysterious voice.

Lord Michael sneered as he watched Lady Garnet beam at the man she had been betrothed to for two years. Everyone knew Lady Garnet and Lord Charles were to be married in June. The old fortune-teller had certainly made no great revelation in predicting their union.

The Gypsy finally turned her attention to Lady Samantha, staring at her for a moment and then glancing down at her crystal ball. The gold bracelet on her wrist jingled as she waved her gnarled hand over the shimmering orb. The old woman hesitated before she gave her next revelation. "You will never obtain that which you desire. The man you wed will never have your heart, and the man you love will never be your husband."

Lady Samantha gasped and shrank visibly. "I don't believe you," she said in a trembling voice. "You cannot possibly see what will happen just by glancing into that silly little glass ball."

The old woman raised her dark eyes and shook her head. "I see many things that I do not tell because it is not good to know too much of the future. What I tell you tonight will come to pass."

Lady Samantha's mouth formed a pout. "Tell Lord Michael's fortune, and let's hope you find a more favorable prediction for him."

Madame Zambana looked up into scornful green eyes. She stared at Lord Michael so long that the others at the table began shifting in their chairs, but Lord Michael merely stared back at her unflinchingly.

"You are a handsome one," Madame Zambana said with a toothless grin. "Many women of high and low birth have vied for your notice. But, my handsome young man, all their attentions have become commonplace to you."

"Tell us something we don't know," Lord Grussom said tauntingly. "Lord Michael would have all the women and leave us with none."

The Gypsy continued as if she had not heard the interruption. "You will soon meet a woman that will not be so easily won, and you will suffer much before you are tamed, my comely one. Take particular notice of any woman you meet with hair like flame."

Lord Michael merely raised a dark brow.

The Gypsy continued. "You will take a long sea journey within a fortnight."

Lord Michael yawned behind his hand. "I can assure you I have no intention of leaving England until spring. My mother has suggested that I spend the winter at Ravenworth." He glanced at Lady Samantha. "As you know, my mother's suggestions are more like commands."

The old woman shook her head. "Nonetheless, you will embark on a long sea voyage. Beware, for you shall know betrayal as well as great friendship. Trust not a one-eyed man, and avoid a man of high rank who is of Turkish descent."

Lord Michael grinned, thinking this woman was quite entertaining after all. "A journey at this time might be quite amusing. It would certainly take me away from the doldrums of spending the winter months in the country."

The Gypsy waved her hand over the crystal ball and stared long into the smoky depths. Her dark eyes suddenly turned colorless like a swirling mist. "The black feather of disaster has fallen at your feet, young lord. Much trouble for you—much trouble. Someone close to you is in grave danger, perhaps dead."

There was a gasp from one of the ladies and a murmuring of voices. Suddenly the fun had gone out of the evening.

Madame Zambana's tone became urgent, and she caught Michael's hand. "You will not know winter this year, for you will travel to a land of warmth and sand. It would be best if you heed my words, young lord, for there is someone who needs you." Her eyes became piercing, and she looked deeply into Lord Michael's eyes. "You should go home."

Michael pried her hand from his and looked into eyes that were glowing with sincerity. He reminded himself that the Gypsy was acting a part and had put on a good performance. Why then did he feel this uneasiness in the pit of his stomach? Why had her predictions struck fear in his heart?

Without another word, he rose to his feet, tossing a few coins to the old woman. "You are most entertaining, madame. But you missed your calling—you should have been on the stage."

The Gypsy gathered up the coins and held them in her hand. "You do not believe what I have told you, but you will soon know that I have spoken the truth. Remember my words."

He laughed and bowed stiffly. "I'll consider your warning."

"That is all I ask."

Lord Michael turned to the others. "I take leave of you." To Lady Samantha, he added: "A most enlightening evening."

"Must you go?" she asked with disappointment etched on her face.

"Yes, I must. I'm to meet Lord Walters at my club. Fortune has been kind to me of late. I promised I'd give him a chance to win back his money."

Lady Samantha accompanied him to the door and waited for the butler to bring his hat. "You don't believe that old woman, do you?"

"No," Lord Michael said adamantly, "and you shouldn't put any trust in her words either."

"Will I see you at Lady Milan's party tomorrow night?"

He became impatient to leave. "Of course."

She watched the butler close the door behind Lord Michael, feeling empty inside. If only she could tell him how much she loved him. But she knew if she ever declared her love, Michael would turn away from her as he had from many others. No, she had to be cleverer than those women who threw themselves at his head. She would be patient and wait for him to come to her.

When Michael was seated in his coach, the Gypsy's warning rang in his head. No, he would not believe her— she was just an old woman who preyed on peoples' hopes and fears for profit.

He tapped his gold-tipped cane on the top of the carriage and called to his driver. "To my club."

As the horses clopped along the deserted street, he thought of Lady Samantha. He supposed he would one day ask her to marry him. Yes, they would deal quite well together, he thought with no particular exhilaration. He had to marry someone, and she was more acceptable than most of the others. At least she didn't bore him.

Michael's thoughts turned to his family. Perhaps it wouldn't be so tedious spending the holidays in the country. By Christmas his father should have returned from Egypt and they would hunt together. There was no one he admired more than his father, and no one he loved as much as his mother. His sister, Arrian, had married a Scottish chieftain. Since Arrian was expecting her second child, she wouldn't be coming to Ravenworth this winter. But no matter—perhaps he and his father could go to Scotland for a bit of hunting.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His mother and father had a marriage everyone envied. Arrian and Warrick were deeply committed to one another. What was wrong with him? he wondered. Was there a woman who would make his eyes soften as his father's did when he looked at his mother? Perhaps he was incapable of love. He certainly didn't like clinging females. He shuddered at the thought of spending his life with a woman who would demand his entire attention.

Again he thought of Lady Samantha. She never made demands on him. Perhaps next spring he would ask her to become his wife.

The carriage stopped at his club, and he ascended the steps, hoping to find amusement in gaming with his contemporaries. Still, in the back of his mind the old Gypsy's warning haunted him.

After spending the better part of the night at his club playing cards, Lord Michael climbed into his coach and directed the driver to take him home.

A warm sun bathed the wet cobblestone streets with a soft golden glow as his crested carriage turned the corner and stopped before a three-story town house. Four prancing grays stomped their hooves, impatiently tossing their shimmering manes, while the coachman kept a steadying grip on the reins.

The street vendors were already about, selling their wares. "Lavender, buy my sweet-smelling lavender." A woman sang out her melodic chant as she moved through the more fashionable part of London, hoping to sell her flowers. "Lavender for your lady—lavender."

An outrider dressed in green livery jumped from his high perch and hurriedly lowered the steps and opened the coach door, speaking respectfully to Lord Michael. "Do you require anything further, m'lord?"

"No. Go to bed, Simmons."

Lord Michael yawned sleepily as he climbed the steps. Another long, dull evening, he thought, longing for his bed.

The door of his town house was thrown open, and his valet, William, rushed toward him, his usual calm manner forgotten in his anxiety. "Her Grace is inside, m'lord. She's been here since midnight. She seems most distraught. Your aunt, Lady Mary, is with her."

"Mother and Aunt Mary here at this hour?"

"Yes, m'lord, and they've been waiting all night for your return. I sent Horace to Lady Samantha's, thinking you'd still be there, but he was informed you'd already left."

Michael's path was suddenly blocked by a woman selling lavender. Absently, he thrust a shilling at her and unconsciously took the flowers she pushed in his hands.

"Thank ya', sir. Thank ya' kindly," she said, biting the coin to make certain it was genuine, and smiling when she was satisfied with its value.

Lord Michael pushed past the woman and hurried up the steps. His mother would never arrive in the middle of the night unless something was amiss. His first thought was that something was wrong with his sister, Arrian. Perhaps the birth of her child had not gone well.

He rushed inside, calling his mother.