For the Love of a Gypsy (15 page)

“Now do you think London will accept me?” The anger shimmered through her tears, fiery hot. “See how they treat your Gypsy fiancé? English women do not have tanned skin. They do not speak with my accent. They are not called Martine. They will all know I am Rom.”

He cupped her cheek. “You will be my wife. A few ill-mannered ruffians won’t change that.” He ran his thumb over her lips. “I love you.”

She snuggled into his hand. But he saw the doubt that flared in her eyes, the slight flare of her nose. It killed him to see her so uncertain, so fearful.

“They will never accept me. How can I do that to you? To us?”

Dread punched him in the gut. He kissed her forehead. “I have faith in us.”

She shook her head while tears raced down her face.

“A bath is being drawn for you, m’lady.”

A small smile quirked her mouth, even as tension tightened her shoulders. “Och, thank you. I feel as if I hadn’t bathed in months.”

Declan chuckled. “This way.” He nodded thank you to his men. They saluted and went about their business. He’d have to check with the magistrate to ensure the men were sent on their way.

As they entered the pub, the establishment went silent. Martine ducked her gaze, knowing full well she was the cause of the silence. Dear God, it shamed her to be treated as those men treated her, to be glared at by the people in the pub.

“Ye can be staying. But her,” the barkeep said as he pointed at her, “will have to leave.”

Declan drew up and glared at the man. “Tell me, old man, do you wish to die today?”

The man blanched and the lump in his throat bobbed up and down. His gazed raked over Martine in her red dress. “I’ll not have a damn Gypsy in me pub.”

Declan rested his elbow on the bar and lifted his boot onto the brass footrest. “You’ll provide a room for my betrothed.” He spoke low but with an undisguised growl. “Do we understand each other, old man?”

The barkeep nodded and picked up a glass. He must have decided Declan needed reassurance, because the glass was soon filled with frothy ale.

Never had she felt so humiliated. She felt rooted to the dusty, wooden planks of the floor, unable to force herself forward or back.

Surely Declan would see the errors of his ways and decide he couldn’t marry someone who would never be accepted into his society. She felt the interest of every man in the pub, disgust and mistrust. No matter she wasn’t truly a Gypsy. The villagers didn’t know she was English—they saw only the brightly colored clothing, tanned skin and heard her accent, thick and foreign.

They saw Rom.

Martine tugged on Declan’s elbow. “Let’s leave.” The begging tone of her voice shamed her. Where did her courage flee to? Even more degrading was the fact the barkeep and everyone in the pub seemed to agree with her.

He took a long draw from the ale. “Nay. Go and bathe.” He drummed his fingers on the bar. “I’ll purchase a traveling costume.”

He placed his hand at the small of her back, offering an encourage smile. “Go, ‘tis safe.”

She tried to smile at him, but she knew her mouth didn’t form more than a straight line. With trembling fingers, she gripped the railing to the stairs and began walking up one step at a time. She could feel the scrutiny of the pub’s patrons as if they were burning holes through her back with their intense stares.

Just as she also knew Declan was there and wouldn’t allow harm to come to her.

As she reached the door, she heard Declan leave and wanted to run back down the stairs and cling to him. No, she chastised herself, I’m a Petrulengo, or at least was raised as one. Rise above. Martine straightened her spine and continued through the door, refocused and determined not to allow the villagers to strip her of her dignity.

The chamber was clean and warmed by a small fire in the hearth. A small bath sat in the center and beckoned to her like a sweet. She shut the door and began to undress. When she spied a linen towel and a chunk of soap, she almost squealed with glee.

A knock on the door stilled her actions. Cautiously she put her ear to the wood. “Who’s there?”

“’Tis me, m’lady. Ruth, the chamber maid.”

Martine sighed, rebuttoned her blouse, and opened the door. “Come in.”

The stooped woman struggled with a steaming bucket of water.

“Let me help you.” Martine relieved Ruth of the cumbersome bucket and set it on a stool near the tub.

The woman ducked her head. “’Tis for rinsing.”

Martine touched her arm and said, “Thank you for bringing the water. I’ve been dreaming of a bath for several days.”

“Aye, ‘tis been quite the time ye had at Riverton. That crazy Sadie is being taken care of, more’s the pity. She was a fine tipper, that one.”

Not knowing how to reply, Martine absently straightened the coverlet on the bed. She didn’t want to talk about Lady Bannon. She wanted to forget the loathsome acts the woman had perpetrated.

“Listen to me chatting like a hen. Me Joseph always says I don’t ken when to quit.”

Martine smiled. “No matter. I’ll take my bath now.”

The older woman bobbed her head and ducked out of the room. Before she closed the door, she said, “I’ll be sending a meal up for you and the fine lord.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t know why, but a nervous tremor clenched her stomach. She was to be married to Declan. Something she never hoped to dream of and now it was coming true. Oh to have her grandmother here to witness the event. Martine rubbed her eyes to stop the winsome tears clogging her vision. She sniffled and then began to undress once again. With a second thought, she put a spindly-back chair beneath the doorknob to ensure there would be no more interruptions.

She slipped into the tub and sighed. ’Twas glorious. The heat, scented soap, and just getting the grime from her body. She nearly fell asleep she soaked so long. After lathering her hair, she rinsed with clean water and began drying off.

“Martine,” a voiced called between banging on the door. “Let me in.”

She wrapped the towel around her still-damp body and removed the chair from before the door. “’Tis open,” she called as she moved into the protective shadows of the room.

Declan entered with packages overloading his arms. “I’ve bought the stores out.”

“Aye, I can see.” His generosity warmed her. Pah, what sentimentality. Still, the girlish side of her nature was thrilled to be wearing stylish clothing. Her brother would seethe if he saw her in the dress of the Irish. And since she was still peevish when it came to him, it brought a wee bit of satisfaction that she’d done as she pleased instead of bowing to Rafe’s wishes.

“Come closer,” he said as he crooked his finger at her. “I have another surprise.”

Curious, Martine came forward as she attempted to guess what his surprise might be. Not that he needed to give more to her. He’d already saved her from a hellish marriage and made her heart fuller than she’d ever imagined. He set down the packages and pulled her into his chest. She caught her breath, then released it as she looked into his loving eyes. They darkened to a deep midnight blue as his gaze roamed over her face.

Declan smoothed her hair back and his fingers tangled into the wet curls. He tugged her head back and kissed her thoroughly. She returned the kiss in kind as heat coiled within the pit of her stomach. She sank further into his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck. As she did so, the towel slipped to the floor in a puddle at her feet. Cool air hit her skin as internal heat surged within with a provocative decadence. Declan’s hands roamed her body, a soft touch with slightly abrasive hands. Her heart beat fast against her chest, pushing her to open her mouth to his demanding tongue.

“No,” he said breathlessly. “After we wed.” He rested his forehead on hers. His hand slipped behind her neck, warm and protective.

“You’re a good man, Declan Forrester.” She rose up on her tiptoes and gently kissed him on the lips. “’Tis why I’m marrying you.”

His mouth tilted into a cocky grin and then he started opening all of the packages. “This,” he said while holding up a lovely rose-colored skirt, “is for you.”

She accepted the skirt and held it up to herself to check the fit, not caring a whit she was naked. She wasn’t surprised when it appeared to be the perfect length. He followed suit with several blouses, waistcoats, and under garments.

With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I’ve saved the best for last.” He opened a large box and unfolded a deep sapphire blue gown.

The luxurious fabric tempted her fingers and she slid them down the silk. He held it up and mockingly pretended to waltz around the room with the gown draped before him. Martine laughed and hugged him. “’Tis elegant, to be sure. And such a grand shade of blue to match your eyes.”

“’Tis your wedding dress.”

“Blue?” she said as she caressed the fabric once again.

He cocked a brow. “You were going to wear a red dress, were you not?”

She shrugged. “Aye, I was.” ’Twas true, but Martine wasn’t sure how she was feeling. Homesickness. That was the answer. She tipped up her face and said, “I’ll take my dress, if you please.”

Declan handled it to her. As she stepped to retrieve it, he wrapped his arms around her and just stared into her eyes. “I’ve another gift.”

She swatted at him. Never had she had this much attention before—the gifts, his loving words. “You’ll spoil me.”

“’Tis my right.” He reached into his pocket and took out a slim box.

Martine glanced at him, then back at the box. She untied the white ribbon and opened the lid. A golden band, etched with scrolling filigree, nestled in silk and sparkled with a large red stone. She touched the cool metal as she marveled at the ring’s beauty. Anticipation swirled within her stomach and tears overflowed her lashes. ’Twas the most precious item she’d ever seen.

Declan lifted the ring from the box and went down on one knee. She gasped as he slipped the ring on her finger. “Be mine forever, Martine. Tell me you will.”

She brought her free hand to her chest and said, “Aye, I will.”

He stayed silent, his firm jaw making his face appear hard as granite.

“Declan, is something wrong?” Panic surged through her. Did he change his mind?

“Nay.” His voice rasped the word. “I’m proud to have you as my wife.” He lifted from his kneeling position and brought her hand to his lips. “You’re my treasure, my life.”

Her heart missed a beat at the vehemence of his words. Never had she felt so wanted and accepted.

“Get dressed, woman. You’re too tempting to be sure.”

She nodded, too touched for words. She pledged she’d never shame him, never allow those in London to know she was Rom.

From this day forward, she was English.

Chapter 18

She watched Declan rise and begin to dress and ready for their departure to England. Och, her head hurt as she thought of the voyage and then landing in a land so foreign to her. No matter, her betrothed’s body garnered her attention as he shucked his clothing unaware of her perusal. He was an excellent example of manhood. Broader of shoulder than most Rom men, taller, and with a rugged handsomeness that pleased her beyond comparison. His muscles rippled and bunched as he moved, strong, powerful. Pah, she was like a love-sick cow.

The only sour note was the band of scars across his back. Stark white against his tanned skin, they stood out horribly. It sickened her to think of the pain he endured.

He turned and noticed her watching. A cocksure grin creased his face, then concern shone as he approached. “Why are you troubled, my love?” He knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms.

She shook her head. “’Twas nothing,” she said softly as she dressed.

Doubt in his eyes told her he didn’t believe her. “Right. If you wish to tell me later, feel free.”

Martine rested her hand on his forearm. “Tell me of your time in prison.”

He looked at her, his gaze unreadable, as if he shuttered any emotion from her. He sighed, then uttered a curse. “’Tisn’t pretty.” He pulled on his breeches, yet remained shirtless.

“I know,” she said softly as she ran a finger along his back.

Declan made himself comfortable by leaning back on his elbows as he lay beside Martine. He stared at the ceiling, wishing she’d change her mind about learning of his horrid past. The shame of it all returned to him, quick and painful. He grimaced at remembering his time in prison, the smell of rotting flesh. The value of life so poor that many killed for a meager bowl of gruel.

He’d killed for a meager bowl of gruel.

Once again he looked to Martine. The early morning light caressed her, making her more lovely than he’d ever imagined. She sat patiently, her large eyes filled with compassion. He knew he had to tell her, but the urge to tuck the toxic memories away tempted him.

“They came for me. My father’s colleagues and the magistrate.”

She nodded her encouragement and gave a slight smile. God, he loved this woman.

He looked out the window and watched a bank of clouds shift its shape through the sky. The distraction failed. He leaned forward and draped his arm over a bent knee. “They arrested me. Treason, they said.” He shrugged. “But ‘twas a lie.”

She leaned up. Concern narrowed her eyes. “And your father? What did he do?”

Declan gave a bitter laugh. “He sat in his chair and watched.” It felt odd talking to her about his past. As if he were talking about someone other than himself. Yet the more he spoke, the more his soul felt purged of its demons.

Martine gasped. “He didn’t try to save you?”

“Nay.” The word dragged out of him like a knife through a fish’s gullet.

Tears glistened in her eyes. Bright, sympathetic. He was certain she was hurting nearly as much as he was.

With a wry grin, he said, “If it eases your heart any, he died after my trial.”

The tears fell, racing down her cheeks in shiny rivulets. “And your mother?”

Darkness consumed him. “I barely knew her.”

She gasped. “Oh, Declan.”

Her sympathy almost undid him. Instead of succumbing to his desire to rage about his past, he inhaled and continued to speak. “When she died, my father became my enemy.”

“I barely remember my mother or father,” she said with a hitch in her voice. “My past is a faded memory.”

He reached for her hand. “I know, lass. I know.”

She gave a sad smile, one filled with memories and hope. “I remember bits and pieces. My mother’s hair was almost the same color as mine. My father was tall with a grayish beard. Sometimes I hear a voice that I’m certain is his. Wishful, I know.”

He brushed away the tears on her cheeks. “We’re a damn sorry lot.”

“Tell me more,” she urged.

He shrugged. “I lived in the hell of prison all the while wanting to die. Then Lord Ettenborough arranged for me to leave.”

She fingered his hand, tracing his thumb, along his palm and around his wrist. He knew she meant to soothe him, but the soft movements inflamed him.

“And the marks on your back?”

Desire doused, he answered her. “In prison, ‘twas the guards’ duty to keep us in our place. Or, for the thrill of it, they’d drag us, one by one, into the yard and beat us for sport.” She was too gentle of a woman to hear the other harsh realities of prison life. “Ettenborough handed me a gift.”

She nodded and said with a soft voice, “Aye, and to him we can be grateful.”

Declan grunted. He held no sympathy for Ettenborough.

“Truly. If he hadn’t found you, you would have never have found me.”

He slipped his hand behind her head and pulled her forward. As he gazed into her eyes, he pondered her arrival in his life. Luck, fate—no matter. She’d saved him from a life of loneliness. He glanced at her full lips before he lowered his head and kissed her. They were pliant, giving and demanding. As each moment passed, blood traveled faster and faster through him, igniting a fervor to have her and have her now.

A knock sounded at the door.

“
Bollocks
.” He rose and opened it.

“I was told ye’d be here.”

“’Tis a bit early, Nate.”

“Aye, well,” he said sheepishly. “The men are restless, and full of spit and vinegar. Could we be having some training?”

Declan chuckled. “Aye. Go to the estate. I’ll meet you there.” He smiled apologetically.

“Go. Play with your men,” she said with a smile.

He quickly kissed her, grabbed his shirt, and turned to Nate. “Aye, you’ve asked for it, lad. Now let’s see what your lazy carcass can do.”

Nate laughed and slapped him on the back. “’Tis good to be back, ye ken?”

He looked over his shoulder at Martine, taking in her womanly curves.

Aye, ‘twould never be dull with his Martine. His Gypsy brought out the goodness in him and had a passionate fire that lit her from within.

But would she be able to live with his sins, the sins of his past and those of his father?

When they arrived in London, would her faith in him unravel as his past became clear? He prayed to God no, but his heart worried it would be yes.

Sadie lounged in a chair by the hearth and twirled a lock of her hair. Trenmore stood behind her, driving her to insanity with his solicitous manners and continuous attention. She’d done nothing wrong, to be sure. Didn’t Abigail deserve to be dead with the way she had neglected such a fine man as Declan Forrester? Aye, her friend had ensured misery wherever she went and Sadie’s heart broke at the how Abigail treated her husband.

“Would you like a bit of tea?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nay, Trenmore. I’m drowning in tea.”

He patted her arm. “Now, now, my dear. No need to be upsetting yerself.”

She rose and paced to an open window. The day blazed with a bright afternoon sun. How she wished to be outdoors and out of her prison. Trenmore had assured the magistrate he’d keep her secure in her home. And blast him if the man didn’t hold true to his promise.

The green landscape taunted her. Och, how she wanted to go to the village, buy a hat or some ribbons, hear some gossip. No doubt the gossips were a wee bit busy with the news she’d created.

“My dear, you’ll catch yer death. Come away from the window.”

“Aye, Trenmore,” she said sweetly. “’Tis a brisk day.”

She sat on the chair and accepted the throw. Aye, Trenmore was handsome, quite a catch in the midst of County Kildare. However, she had a more comely suitor in mind. Trenmore’s constant attention smothered her and the way he picked his teeth after a meal churned her stomach. Sadie covered herself with the woolen blanket, feigning compliance.

He leaned over the hearth and added a brick of peat and some brambles to the fire.

Sadie leapt from the chair and grabbed the poker. In one swift motion, she struck him on the head. He landed in a heap on the stone hearth with a guttural oath. Blood poured from the small hole in his head. A hiss passed his lips as his body stopped twitching.

“Well,” she said aloud, “that didn’t take long at all, at all.”