Gypsy Moon (17 page)

“And did he?” the queen asked dispassionately.

“All thanks be to Sara-la-Kali, my queen, the man refused her. But moments later she followed him upstairs. Beyond that point, I can only guess at what transpired. I repeat: The woman is not fit to be among us!”

Petronovich backed away and lost himself in the crowd, never looking at Mateo or Charlotte. The queen turned her attention back to her son and the accused.

“You have heard the witnesses. Did the woman go to Leavenworth for this purpose?”

“Yes, but—” Charlotte began.

“Tell the woman to be silent, Prince Mateo. My question is directed at you alone. Did she go?”

Mateo was caught. He looked from Charlotte to his mother and finally down at the ground as he murmured. “Yes. But you know why she went.”

“The truth has many faces. Did a soldier pay gold for her?”

Mateo brightened for a moment. “I saw no gold.”

“Here is the gold,” Petronovich volunteered, producing the damning evidence.

“Did he lie with her. Prince Mateo?” demanded the queen.

Suddenly Mateo’s temper flared as bright as the fire. He pulled Charlotte into his arms protectively and shouted, “He did not! But I did! Charlotte Buckland is my woman and no one will touch her without dealing first with me. It is good that you have formed this council, for I have an important announcement to make. I hereby renounce my title of prince.” He paused while another wave of shocked murmurs passed through the
familia.
“Choose whom you will to take my place. I have already chosen where I wish to be—by the side of Charlotte Buckland, the woman I love, the woman I will marry, the woman who even now carries my child in her womb.”

“Mateo!” Charlotte gasped, shocked.

Shouts of outraged protest burst from the crowd. Queen Zolande silenced them by raising her hands.

“You are sure of this?” she asked of her son.

“Yes, Mother,” he said softly. “As sure as I am that the curse will strike me with the next full moon.”

Charlotte was torn. Mateo’s declaration had filled her with hope for a happy future, but seeing the old queen’s reaction, her feeling changed to guilt. The woman sagged on her throne, looking frail and ancient. It was as if Mateo had taken away her last hope for happiness.

No! Charlotte thought. I am the one who has robbed her of that.

At that very moment, Charlotte Buckland decided what she must do—for Queen Zolande and most of all for Mateo. She would have to be careful and choose her time carefully. The very thought filled her with pain.

But I must! she told herself. I must leave him because I love him.

Lance Delacorte glanced up at the entrance to Fort Leavenworth and groaned. As if last night hadn’t been bad enough, he knew that two confrontations awaited him inside those log walls that would make his bout with Prince Mateo look like child’s play by comparison.

“I reckon Colonel Custer will be wantin’ to have a word with you right off, Lieutenant, you missin’ muster and all.” The old mule skinner seemed to be reading his passenger’s mind. “Want I should drive you right over to headquarters?”

“No thanks, Sarge,” Delacorte answered. “I’ll go by my quarters first and clean up a bit. It wouldn’t do to present myself to the colonel dressed like this.”

Sarge squinted against the sun to cover a grin. Lordy, but this young buck was in for it! That wife of his was one of the devil’s own. She’d probably draw and quarter him the minute he walked in. Nobody crossed Annabelle Hampton Delacorte and came away unsinged… least of all her husband. Sarge nodded to himself. Yes sir, that’d be a sight to see—him walking in wearing borrowed britches this time of the morning. That would take some explaining!

“Thanks for the ride, Sarge,” Delacorte said, easing his aching body down from the wagon seat.

“Don’t mention it.”

Lance’s head throbbed. He’d tried all during the ride back from town to come up with some explanation that he thought Annabelle might accept. If there was anything he didn’t need this morning, it was her viper’s tongue slashing at him.

He grinned dourly. “Wonder if she’d believe I was kidnapped by pirates on the Missouri River, who beat me up, stole my clothes, then dumped me on the far shore,” he muttered. “Not likely!”

Lance mounted the wooden steps and crossed the narrow porch, walking as lightly as he could. No need to attract Annabelle’s attention any sooner than he had to. He certainly didn’t want another scene out here in front of everyone, like the last time he overstayed his time in town. Lord, she’d made him the laughingstock of the whole fort—screaming at him like a fishwife and threatening him with everything from divorce to castration.

Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the front door open. The tiny living room, with its horsehair settee, side chairs, and coffee table, was immaculate but deserted. He frowned. Surely Annabelle wouldn’t still be in bed at this hour. It wasn’t like her.

He tiptoed through the room and across the narrow hallway. The bedroom door was closed. He could hear humming coming from within. His frown deepened. Annabelle might sing for company, but she never hummed. What the hell was going on?

He started to knock on the closed bedroom door, then changed his mind. This was his house, his bedroom, his wife. If he felt like walking in unannounced, by God, he’d do just that!

Giving the door a healthy push, he looked in. “
Annabelle
7” His shocked cry rattled the mirror she stood before.

“How dare you burst in on me?” she snapped, whirling toward her husband. In that moment, her narrow green eyes took in his battered face, his ill-fitting clothes, and his uncombed hair. She smiled. “Poor darling,” she crooned, “whatever happened to you? Were you kidnapped by river pirates?”

Her sarcastic mention of the very excuse he’d planned to try out on her made him all the madder. “Never mind what happened to me! What do you think you’re doing—fawning and primping in front of the mirror in your underwear and smearing lip paint on your mouth? I demand an explanation!”

She sniffed and turned back to her reflection, continuing to smooth the rose-tinted cream over the thin line of her lips. He had to wait for an answer until she’d finished.

“I’m going riding with Colonel Custer, if you must know. He has asked me several times before this and I’ve always declined. But since you chose to get into mischief again last night, I thought it might be helpful to your career if I accepted his invitation this time. Not that I haven’t wanted to all along. He’s quite a fascinating man.”

A rumbling jealousy roared through Lance Delacorte. Colonel Custer’s rides with young ladies were legendary and much whispered about on post. He’d had no idea the man had sought out his own wife for such a dubious honor. Annabelle might not be a prize, with her thin, pale face, mousy hair, and flat-chested figure, but she was his wife. The thought of another man paying attention to her infuriated him. It also made her look far more enticing to him than she had only a few hours ago. Standing before him in her thin, beribboned camisole, tight-fitting corset, and pantaloons, she seemed almost as arousing a morsel now as she had that first time, on their wedding night four years before. She certainly seemed a far cry from the cold little prude she’d proved to be since that night.

“I forbid it!”

She flicked a limp wrist toward him, dismissing his words. “La, aren’t you the masterful one! I’d like to see a lowly lieutenant march into the colonel’s office and announce that his wife isn’t
allowed
to ride out with the gentleman.” Her eyes narrowed once more as she turned on him. “Besides, I’m on to your weekly trips to Leavenworth. Special scouting duty, bah! Scouting out whiskey and women—that’s what you do best!”

“Annabelle!” he gasped.

“Never mind the outraged protest, darling. Some of the enlisted men stopped by the Star of the West last night. I know all about your fling with the little golden-haired Gypsy. The whole camp knows. And from now on, Lance Delacorte, I plan to do just as I please. You go your way and I’ll go mine. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d like to finish dressing. I don’t want to keep George waiting.”

Lance Delacorte stumbled backward and fell to a sitting position on the bed, his mouth agape.
George
, she’d called him!

Annabelle continued preparing herself, ignoring him completely. She pulled on a linen blouse with a lace ruff that gave the illusion of more bosom than she actually possessed. The hunter-green riding habit snugged itself close to her tiny waist, making her look tantalizingly dainty and feminine, before it swirled into a full skirt. Fetching, he thought miserably. Designed to make a man crave what lay underneath.

Slipping her long fingers into soft kid gloves, Annabelle offered him a false smile and said, “Ta-ta, darling. I shan’t be too late. George says we’ll simply ride out to a private place he knows and read poetry together while we lunch on pheasant and champagne.” She scowled at Lance suddenly. “You really should clean yourself up. You’re a dreadful sight in those baggy old britches. Did your little Gypsy steal your clothes as well as your wallet?”

With that, Annabelle Delacorte swept past her husband and out of the room. Lance slumped on the bed, miserable, defeated, and determined to get even with Prince Mateo and his blonde whore if it was the last thing he ever did.

It wasn’t that George Custer sought any dalliance with Annabelle Delacorte, even though he had become aware of her flirtatious glances. Surely there were more attractive women on post than this little mouse whose own husband didn’t seem to have any interest in her. Still, he enjoyed the company of women in general, and with his own wife away, he often invited his officers’ ladies out to ride. Nothing gave him greater joy than to swing into the saddle next to a pretty woman on horseback and gallop out over the plains on a fine day.

He glanced up at the wide expanse of blue overhead and smiled, stroking his mustache. “Fine day indeed! Now if only the woman were a bit prettier.”

“Colonel Custer,” called a musically feminine voice.

He looked across the parade ground, toward the green-clad, lace-jaboted figure sweeping toward him. A low, appreciative whistle escaped him. Could this be Annabelle Delacorte? He smiled and offered his buckskin-gloved hand.

“Madam, you look fetching.”

Annabelle executed a smart curtsy and flashed him a winsome smile. “Why, thank you, Colonel.”

“Please, call me George.”

She nodded and blushed slightly, thinking that she had been calling him George secretly for some time now. But flirtation was not her main objective today. No. She had much more serious business on her mind.

Having accepted the colonel’s assistance in mounting, she watched admiringly as he swung onto the back of his own horse and spurred the animal to action. For a long time, they raced toward the distant horizon, too windblown and exhilarated to engage in conversation. But Annabelle never ceased rehearsing her speech to him in her mind. Only when they reached a distant hillock covered with a copse of trees did she get her chance.

They had dismounted, nibbled at lunch, and toasted the day and their newfound friendship with sparkling wine before Annabelle finally broached the subject uppermost in her thoughts.

“George,” she began in a whispery voice.

He turned admiring eyes on her. “Yes, Annabelle. What is it?”

“Well, this might not be the time or place, but I must speak to you about a personal problem.”

His hand, which had been inching toward hers, drew away. “Feel free to discuss anything you like, madam.”

“This is something I
don’t
like. Those Gypsies.”

He frowned at her, slightly confused. “I had no idea you’d had occasion to meet any of them.”

“I haven’t, but my husband has, most regrettably.”

Custer laughed and ran nervous fingers through his long yellow hair. “Ah, you mean the talk about last night. I wouldn’t let that bother me, if I were you. It’s probably like any other gossip on an army post—exaggerated and not worth the breath to repeat it. Let’s not allow it to spoil our outing, Annabelle.”

“I don’t want it to spoil anything. That’s why we have to talk about it. Did you see Lance this morning when he came in?” Custer shook his head and Annabelle hurried on, the wind at her back now. “His uniform was gone.”

Custer jerked upright.
“Naked?
By God, I won’t have that of one of my officers!”

“No, no, no! He was in a horrible, threadbare suit of borrowed clothes.”

“Well, I should hope!”

“But don’t you see, it was just as embarrassing for me as if he had been nak— Unclothed. He was with some Gypsy woman last night, drinking and who knows what else. He goes to town once a week and stays all night. Until I heard the rumors flying around this morning, I believed what he’d always told me… that he was on some sort of special duty. Now I feel like such a fool! And those very Gypsies he’s been consorting with are coming here next week. I simply can’t face them!”

Tears coursed down Annabelle’s cheeks and choked her words. Custer patted her hand compassionately and made murmuring sounds of comfort, finally drawing her against his chest to hush the racket. Crying women always confounded him. His own wife never wept or made such unseemly female noises.

“There, there, my dear. Don’t take on so.”

The moment George Custer embraced her, Annabelle felt all her pent-up yearning burst forth. Here she was—“unattractive little Annabelle”—being crushed to the hard bosom of a hero, a man of iron. The thought made her feel faint. She stared up at his lips, wondering how it would feel to have them pressed to her own. Her heart thudded and heat flowed through her.

“George?” she breathed.

But instead of kissing her, he released her, saying, “I really don’t know what I can do, madam. As long as your husband breaks no army regulations, he is his own man.”

She sat staring at him, gasping softly, before she could find her voice to reply. “But he did break the rules! He missed muster this morning. Doesn’t that count?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Are you suggesting I have him locked in the guardhouse?”

The thought pleased Annabelle, but she dared not say so. “No! I want Lance with me, not away from me. It’s the Gypsies I want you to deal with. Can’t you send them away?”

George Custer stroked his chin thoughtfully. A helluva lot of good it would do Annabelle Delacorte to have the Gypsies and their women sent away. Her husband would simply search out other women for his carnal gratification. Still, Custer knew he couldn’t say that to the man’s wife.

“If you could only do something about the blonde one. She seems to be the troublemaker,” Annabelle spat out. The wild stories about last night varied with each telling, except on one point—the lusty beauty of the woman her husband had been with.

“We’ll see,” he muttered, trying to appease her.

Annabelle threw herself into George Custer’s arms and sought the lips she had longed for. He tried to extract himself from her impetuous embrace, but her fingers were twisted through his long hair. He was her prisoner. Finally, he left off fighting and simply allowed himself to enjoy it.

By God, she was a fiery little temptress, he decided. What the hell was Delacorte thinking, fooling around with other women when he had this one at his beck and call?

Later that day, Colonel George Custer faced Lance Delacorte across his desk, feeling no small amount of embarrassment. Granted, what had passed between himself and this man’s wife was only one kiss—and that not of his choosing—but still, the memory of her ardor made him squirm in the presence of her husband.

“Lieutenant Delacorte, Colonel, reporting as ordered.” A smart salute accompanied the man’s words, and his uniform and military bearing were impeccable. Only the discoloration around one eye and his swollen lip hinted at last night’s escapade.

“At ease, Lieutenant Delacorte.” Custer sorely wished that he could say the same for himself. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“No excuse, sir,” Delacorte answered in routine military fashion.

Custer leaned across his desk. “Off the record. Lance. What happened? You look like hell!”

“It was Gypsies, sir. I’m not trying to excuse my own actions, but I go into town once a week for a night out. I’ve never had any trouble until those Gypsies turned up.”

“How many of them jumped you?”

Lance Delacorte’s voice dropped an octave. “Well, there were four in all.”

“Four against one! Those are sizable odds. You’re lucky they didn’t beat you to death.” Custer was shaking his head, thinking that getting rid of the troublesome band might not be such a bad idea.