For the Love of a Gypsy (17 page)

The group chuckled. Declan mentally rolled his eyes at the disheveled butler. “You’re just in time.”

“Right. Well, let me just ready my horse.”

Declan nodded. “I’ll see to Martine.”

She appeared drawn at the daunting trip before them, but true to her spirit, she rode as hard as the rest of them. They’d have to book passage in Dublin, but Declan knew ‘twould only be a matter of time before he stood on English soil again.

Closer to solving the mystery that tore his life to shreds.

Chapter 20

The closer to Dublin they traveled, the more nervous Martine became. Pah, ‘tis just a small trip across the water. Yet the last time she’d traveled across it, she’d been consumed by grief and in the midst of a Gypsy tribe. As a woman, she’d have to be brave, not the little girl in her with her memories tucked neatly away, threatening to emerge.

Declan kept a watchful eye on her, and Little as well, the sweet man. When they arrived in the crush of Dublin, their horses were dwarfed by the busy city. Martine held a hand against her stomach, hoping to quell the nervous quake that gripped it.

So many sites and smells surrounded them—throngs of people, food cooking along with rubbish, and something she only associated with Dublin. The harsh volume of a crowded place hurt her ears. Urchins and the wealthy strode along the same wooden walkways, although the urchins appeared to be shadowing their betters, maybe in hope of gleaning a few pounds. Their poor dirty faces and ragged clothing broke her heart. How she wanted to gather them in her arms and give them a big hug.

Declan led the way toward a large inn with a clean walkway and potted impatiens flanking the door. Would she receive the same welcome she had in Kilkenny? Would the proprietor turn them away because she spoke like a Gypsy? All it would take is one person knowing her past and then all would know.

“Nate, you and Matthew can bring the horses to the nearest stable.” The men gathered the reins and did as they were told.

“Lange, Rufus, and Pierce, go to the pubs and listen for talk of Randolph. If he’s in Dublin, ‘twill be causing a stir.”

Martine watched the men disperse, curious but too tired to ask any questions. She slid into Declan’s waiting arms, relieved to be off a horse and secure in his embrace. “Food, I need food,” she whispered into the crook of his neck.

She felt his throaty chuckle as well as heard it. “Aye, lass. I’ll feed you.”

He carried her into the inn. She blushed at the stares they garnered and felt shabby with her dirty traveling skirt and blouse. She’d long taken off her jacket, too heated by the sun to tolerate its weight. Dust from the trail coated her hair, skin, and clothing.

“Declan, put me down,” she protested.

“And what kind of gentleman would I be if I did that?” He grinned a sexy, all knowing smile and refused to let her go. “I’ll need four rooms,” he said to the man behind the desk.

Martine had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the pinched-nosed man. He peered through spectacles and rapidly tapped his quill against the guest registry.

“Four, ye say.” His gaze bounced between Declan and herself. She held her breath waiting for him to turn them out.

“Aye.”

He took another glance that did its best to show he wasn’t pleased with the scene in the lobby. “I can give you three large and one small. ‘Tis all I have.”

“I’ll take them.” Declan set her down and reached into his pocket for money.

The man noisily cleared his throat. “Will ye be needing baths and a meal as well?”

“That would be lovely,” Martine answered. She disliked the way the man appeared to dismiss her. Aye, she wanted to shout,
I’m Rom. No need to act as if I have the plague
. “Please have them sent up right away.”

“Aye, Madame.”

Martine tipped her chin up a notch and stared at the man. Obviously flustered, the man looked to the registry and asked for their name.

“Forrester,” was all Declan said, and she felt his tension as if it were her own.

“Yes, weel. Neill will show ye to yer rooms.”

They followed a lad whose uniform would fit better on a boy twice his size. Freckles covered his face and red hair stuck out in alarming angles beneath his cap. He bowed to them and picked up their satchels.

“Be sure to give my men their rooms when they arrive,” Declan all but growled.

The innkeeper nodded and pulled at the collar of his starched shirt.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “You frightened him.”

“Och, that hurt.” He motioned her to precede him on the stairs. “’Twas deserved, to be sure. The man looked down his nose at us.”

“When you travel with a Gypsy, ‘tis the welcome you will receive,” she said over her shoulder. “But you didn’t help his opinion of us, now did you?”

“You’re English.” He shrugged and eased her into their room, which the baggage boy had opened.

She furrowed her brow. Did he think stating she was English would suddenly turn her skin pale and grace her with a clipped accent? The accent of the Rom had been deeply ingrained in her speech and she didn’t know if she could learn to speak differently. She worried he’d deny the truth of the matter. Gypsies were not acceptable company for anyone of the
ton
.

She entered the room. “Ah,” she said as she slipped off her shoes and sat on the luxuriously covered bed. Two winged-back chairs nestled near the windows with tea set out on the small table before them. “Tea!”

“There’s your food.” Declan rummaged through his bag and took out clean clothing. He followed suit with Martine’s bag and did the same.

’Twas incredibly sweet, the way he laid out a gown and her undergarments. She leaned back in the chair, enjoying the cushion after so many hours on horseback. The tea felt wonderful on her throat, and the scones and clotted cream helped sate her hunger.

“Would you care for some?”

Declan smiled at her and said, “Nay, I think you’ll need it all.”

She winked. “I’m willing to share.”

He cocked his brow and pointed to the plate. All the scones were gone and crumbles lay in their place.

Martine laughed. “Some gentleman you are, making me feel like a glutton.”

After he set her bag down, he walked over to the windows, slow, like a cat ready to pounce. He placed his hands on the side of the chair and leaned in for a kiss. “You taste like cream.” Declan brought up his hand and cradled her face. She leaned into the warmth and sighed.

She looked at his chest. “Tell me about Randolph.”

He pulled away, physically, emotionally. She watched him turn toward the chest of drawers and methodically put his things away. “There’s nothing to tell. We grew up together.”

“Why are your men looking for him?” She rose and walked to him. “What aren’t you telling me?” Martine asked as she placed her hand on his shoulder. She tried not to be insulted when he flinched. Regardless, she kept her hand there to remind him of her love.

“Finn Randolph was my only friend.” His voiced rasped sadly. “He’s always shown loyalty to me, unlike so many others.”

“He sounds special.” It hurt her to see he was so obviously pained. His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on a pair of trousers. She removed the garment and took his hand in hers.

Martine led him to the bed and sat him down. She crouched before him, placed her hands on his strong thighs, and looked into his troubled eyes. They darkened like the pit of the sky in the midst of a hardy storm. Absentmindedly, Martine ran her hands up and down Declan’s legs. They tensed, then relaxed. “Please, Declan, I can sense your heart is troubled.”

His mouth rose into a wry grin. “
Bitti chovexani
.”

Her hands fell to her side. “I’m
not
a little witch.”

Declan tangled his fingers into her hair, loosening the knot at the base of her neck. “I know,” he said with such great weariness. “Perhaps if you were, you’d be able to help me.”

“I can help you,” she implored. “If you share with me, I know I can help.”

Her heart broke when his shoulders sagged. “Aye, ‘tis the truth of it.” He lifted her up beside him. “Finn worked at my father’s estate, in the stable, kitchen, wherever he was needed.”

Martine nodded. “Resourceful.”

He smirked. “You have no idea.”

She nudged him. “Go on.”

He shrugged. “After my mother died, my father became very political. At least that is what I was told by the servants. My mother died when I was a wee lad.” He stopped speaking and gazed forward, pensive in thought.

Declan shuddered inside. How could he tell her the details of his time in prison? She’d run and never stop. Yet there she sat, beside him in mind, spirit, and body. He rubbed his eyes, weary from their travels and tired beyond reason.

“I spoke with my father. He pretended I didn’t exist. At meals he looked right through me.” Declan felt as if he’d gone back in time, trying to engage his father in conversation across the finely set dining table. Each time he tried his father would methodically raise his fork from his plate to his mouth. Never did he respond, he thought, as he clenched his fist. Martine unfurled his fingers and weaved her fingers within his. They were long, soothing, warm. He squeezed and continued. “This went on for years. Then one day the magistrate arrived and arrested me.” He shook his head as he pinched his nose. “When they arrived to take me to prison, he said to trust him.
Trust him
.”

Anger swirled though his mind, heating his body with indignation. Damn, he loathed the memories that were still as sharp as a knife. He ran his fingers through his hair with frustration. His body was strung as tight as a bow, despite Martine’s steady presence. “For one fleeting moment, I thought he cared for me and I went with the men.”

“They took you to prison?”

He shook his head. “Nay. I had a trial first.”

She stood and paced before him. “Why? What crime did you commit? Did Finn do something and blame you?”

Declan stared at her in surprise, then released a bitter laugh. “Finn would rather die than turn me over to a noble.”

His wife furrowed her lovely brow. Confusion weighted her gaze.

“Finn’s father was a very important man in London. His mother was a servant.”

“Oh.”

His smile was sincere. “Aye, oh.”

“I fought the men as well as I could. But there was one of me and four of them. And in the courtyard . . . about twenty soldiers.”

Martine stopped pacing and hit her chin with the tip of her finger. “Who were these men?”

He threw up his hands. “At the time, I didn’t know. But now I know they belonged to a secret political society.”

“Pah. What could politics have to do with you going to prison?” She stood glaring at him, her face a study of thoughtfulness right along with fury and sympathy.

“In London, politics was and still is everything,” he said with a droll tone. Of course she wouldn’t know how it worked. The Gypsies only knew that magistrates hunted them and made certain they were killed or locked away indefinitely. “And in English politics, money will open doors, bribe judges, and ensure someone is locked away.”

“Why were you in England? You’re Irish.”

“My mother was English and my father wanted her to be happy. That meant living in England.” And that was why Declan had purposely lived in Ireland—Abigail loved Ireland and wanted to be rid of England. God, the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him.

She nodded.

He cleared his throat, wishing he could erase the memories. “After my mock trial, as I now know it to be, I was sent to rot away.”

Tears flooded her eyes and trickled over her dark lashes. “Oh, Declan. How horrid it must have been.”

“Aye,” was all he could manage. The smell of prison wafted by his nose as the screeches of inmates pierced the air. He wanted to fist his hands over his ears to block away the torturous sounds.

Martine clutched his face between her hands. Tears coursed down her face in fast rivulets. His eyes blurred with unspent tears. God, he hated the weakness.

“Let me in, Declan. Let my love heal you.”

He nodded, gently gripped her arms, and crushed his mouth against hers. They tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs clamoring to get as close as possible. Declan ripped her clothing off as a primal need drove him to devour her. She pulled back, passion radiating in her expressive eyes, then he captured her lips once again as he fondled her breasts. Martine writhed and moaned, spurring him into a heated frenzy.

Declan needed to be in her. Quickly. He pulled her over him until she rode him and he couldn’t tell where he ended and Martine began as they moved as one. She was so hot, tight. He bathed in her as she moved her hips torturously. Declan teased her nipple with his tongue. Then he lapped the other. Pleased with her increased rhythm, he repeatedly suckled her breasts until he could hold back no more. In one swift motion, he gripped her hips and rolled them over so he was on top, still joined, still thrusting.

Martine wrapped her long legs around his waist, drawing him deeper than he could ever imagine. Still, they fought to be closer, deeper.

“Please, Declan,” she whispered through parted lips.

“Aye, my love.” He plunged into her. She bucked off the bed—her hands gripping at the bedding.

He watched satisfaction flow over her face. Peaceful. Beautiful. He buried himself one last time, reaching the pinnacle of fulfillment as never before.

Well sated, he collapsed upon her, chuckling as their breaths came in exhausted spurts. He leaned to the side. Martine’s eyes remained closed, but he knew she was still awake. He trailed his finger along her forehead, over the length of her nose and across her lips. She finally opened her eyes.

“That was . . .”

“I know,” he said as he leaned down and kissed the perfect peak of her nose. “I know.”

They slept, still entangled, unclothed, yet incredibly sated and content. Never had he ever felt this close to another person. The perfection of the moment hovered around them as if protecting them from the harsh reality outside their door.

Declan knew that nothing could possibly surpass what they shared. Even if the truth were revealed, they’d have this afternoon and the bliss of their lovemaking.

He hoped with one last fleeting thought that his bairn grew within her. ‘Twould be a divine example of their struggles and how their love overcame them.

They woke to sun streaming into the room and an insistent knock on the door.