Gypsy Bond

Copyright © 2012 by
Delinda
Corbin

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Cover design by Hot Damn Designs:
www.hotdamndesigns.com
.

~ Chapter 1 ~

Derbyshire England, 1823

The man emerged from the deep shadows cast by the oak tree that marked the far edge of the farmed lands and stepped into the path directly in front of Juliet.

Her loud gasp was made more conspicuous by the man’s silence. She had expected a guard, but had forgotten how skilled they could be at blending into the gloom. She spoke the secret password to the sentry, hating that her voice shook.

He seemed to still in surprise before he glided closer, little more than a suggestion of darker shadow in the faint light cast by the sliver of an upturned moon. “How would a
gadji
such as you know this word?”

Gadji
,
the Romany term for a non-gypsy woman.
The gossip her maid had heard in the village was true. The gypsy tribe her father had welcomed in the years before his death had returned at last. Juliet’s pulse beat hard against her throat. Impatience lent strength to her tone. “That is none of your business. Let me pass.”

“As you will.”
The man whistled through his teeth, a short sharp sound remarkably like a bird’s cry, then melted back into the darkness.

Juliet followed, gathering her skirt in the front so that she could lengthen her stride to keep pace. Her gaze was fixed on the man’s back and the occasional glint of light off his silver earring as he glanced behind at her. They were alone in the darkness, kept company only by the rustlings of small animals and the odor of decaying leaves. This land had been in her family for generations, and she knew nothing lay ahead but the ancient forest and the secrets that it hid in the arms of the gnarled oak trees. She should have been frightened, but the euphoria of anticipation was rising, blocking more sane emotions.

The speed with which the man moved warmed her muscles and she began to regret wearing her heaviest cloak. It had been chosen for its dark color more than for protection against the chill on this mild spring night. At a fork in the path the gypsy turned right toward the lake, formed years ago when beaver dammed a section of the creek. The trail narrowed, the tree limbs hanging so low that Juliet had to bend to avoid catching her upswept hair in the leaves. Each twisting turn had been well known to her as a child, but in the dark, tree roots sought to trip her and briars tugged at her skirts.

She saw a flicker of light through the trees and heard muted voices and the twang of some stringed instrument. To her right, there was the stamp and snort of horses, tethered for the night. They emerged from the trees into the bright light of the gypsy camp.

She was expected.

The whistle had surely been a signal, but there was likely a second sentry who had run ahead to warn the camp of the intruder. People turned toward her, their faces burnished to gleaming copper by the firelight. Children were quieted and held fast in their mothers’ arms. Dogs barked, but were shushed with a bone from the remnants of supper cooked on the spit over the fire.

Juliet caught the tang of burning oak and the drifting scent of roasting meat, reminding her that she’d been too nervous to partake of dinner. It was well that someone enjoyed the abundant venison to be found in the park, she thought with wry amusement. Her father had loved
sport,
often hunting with hounds, but her brother preferred less-vigorous pursuits and sent a servant to purchase their meat from the butcher in the village.

A man with grizzled gray hair separated himself from those gathered around the fire and stepped toward her, his bow respectful. “Miss Bailey, welcome.”

“Luca?”
She had wondered what she would do if this was not the same tribe who had visited in years past, but Luca’s presence reassured her. The older man was a horse trainer, often found at their stables when his band was camped nearby. He’d trained the horse she rode still, her favorite mare Abigail.

He straightened, standing tall and proud. “It is kind of you to remember my name. I’m sure it is your kindness as well that has allowed us to camp here again.”

He evidently remembered her brother and knew that James was not enamored of the gypsy lifestyle. “It has been too long, my friend,” she said. “I find you in good health?”

If he was surprised by the warmth of her greeting, he hid it well. He inclined his head.
“As with the march of the seasons, I persevere.
Come by the fire,” he urged. “My daughter will bring wine.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I am here on an urgent errand.” Accepting their hospitality meant a delay, one that might cause her to lose courage.

Luca shot her a sharp look, but turned to lead her deeper into the camp. The men behind him parted to allow her to make her way to the roaring blaze. The flickering light played across the brightly painted reds and blues of the wooden
vardos
that encompassed the camp in their protective semi-circle. Her gaze caught a glint of stained glass on the larger, more ornate wagons, and she turned an appraising eye on the coins worn by the women on belts around their waists or woven into their hair. The group had grown prosperous. Rumors circulated that some tribes kidnapped the children of wealthy families and ransomed them, but this one had always been honest and hard-working, often arriving in time to help with the sowing of the fields. She hoped that was still the case.

Catching the gaze of a young woman with a red kerchief across her hair and a baby on her lap, she realized that she was being appraised with as much distrust as she had briefly felt. Her face flared and she turned away from the woman, her gaze seeking out the friendlier features of Luca.

“How may we serve you, Miss Bailey?”

Panic rose up, closing her throat. She’d acted out this moment in her mind a thousand times. Now, those carefully chosen words deserted her. As the silence stretched, she heard the shuffle as someone moved on the piles of rugs on which they sat and a child’s cough as the wind shifted and the smoke from the blaze drifted across the camp. For a moment, it seemed as surreal as the dream she’d had so many times. She shook her head to clear it. There was nothing left for her at home. These people were her future.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ve come to demand my rightful place beside my husband.”

The noises of the camp quieted as if the occupants had taken one collective breath, then a young man laughed and called out, “There are no princes on white horses here. Look elsewhere for your mate.”

The red in her cheeks burned as if the heat of the fire had jumped to her face, but she refused to accept such easy defeat. “Four years ago, when your tribe was last here, I jumped the
Springfire
with one of your own.”

A murmur of speculation chased across the circle and she felt a moment’s satisfaction.

“Name this person,” demanded an aged woman who sat high on a pile of rugs. Wrinkled and gray, she looked to Juliet like the witch in the book of fairy tales her nurse had read to her as a child.

Juliet swallowed hard and searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face, someone who would remember that night.
Looking for her husband.
Alarm tightened her muscles as she realized he might no longer travel with the tribe. The wind freshened, making the fire dance and shadows pass so quickly across the other faces that they became distorted. In desperation, she blurted out the name. “Marko
Lovel
.”

“Lies,” she heard someone mutter.

On the farthest edge of the fire, nearly out of the light of its rays, a man pushed a woman from his lap, depositing her on the rug beside him in a pile of ruffled skirts and disgruntled mutterings. He rose with the lithe grace of an acrobat and stepped into the light. “It is true.”

For a moment, she doubted that it was him. The voice was deeper and held a trace of severity that she’d never heard in it before. He was larger than she remembered, but then he’d been a young man, a mere seventeen to her sixteen years when last she’d seen him. His shoulders had broadened and his chest filled out to an impressive width. It was difficult to tell in the baggy breeches preferred by the gypsies, but it appeared that his legs were strong, most likely from hours of riding bareback. Thick, black hair curled around the open collar of his wide-sleeved red shirt.

“Marko.”
She breathed his name and took a tentative step toward him, her heartbeat so loud in her ears that all other sound was muted. He moved quickly around the fire, the other men stepping back with a deferential air to allow him to reach her. He stopped within a few feet of where she stood and she raised her chin to look at him. She stared, longing to recognize any hint of familiarity in his features, but with the fire at his back, his face was cast in the aged bronze of a statue.