Gypsy Moon (23 page)

“Charlotte, I want to make love to you,” he whispered into her ear

She searched his face, his eyes. Was he merely stating a fact or asking her permission? She couldn’t be sure. She wanted him, too. But how could she give herself to this stranger? Still, she could see the pain deep in his eyes. It was her duty—and her joy—to draw it from him unto herself.

His hand was on her shoulder, gently easing away the fabric of her robe to bare her flesh to his lips. She closed her eyes and allowed the touch of his mouth on her skin to send a wonderful warmth surging through her. He was so very gentle with her. It felt so good to be held this way. She sighed.

But a moment later, his bold hand ventured beneath the robe. Startled by his intimacy, she tried to pull away. He quieted her with strange, foreign-sounding words, and soon his hand cupped her breast, draining away her resistance. He seemed to know her body well. He knew just where to touch her and how to bring a rush of pleasure surging through her. She had been in pain for so long, it seemed—
forever.
Now she was hard-pressed to deny herself these exquisite sensations, even knowing that in the end more pain would come of it. She gave herself up to him, luxuriating in his knowing caresses.

“Charlotte, oh, my
sunaki bal,
I’ve wanted this for so long. You’ll never know how much I’ve needed you these past weeks. I was so afraid you weren’t coming back to me.”

Coming back
to him? She wondered where she had been. Her brain was spinning. She remembered now that when she’d awakened a short time before, she had been repeating a name from a dream. What was it?
Mateo!
That was it! This man must be the one called Mateo!

She sighed the name aloud and he crushed her close, sure that she remembered everything now. The thought made him bold. He leaned her back against her pillows and opened her robe. She struggled against his hands, but very weakly. The excitement he aroused in her had drained away her small wellspring of strength.

“Be still, darling,” he murmured. “Let me love you.”

She lay back with her body exposed to his exploring eyes and his caressing hands and lips. Tenderly, he fondled her breasts before dipping his head low to suckle there. She tangled the fingers of her left hand in his dark hair, holding his mouth to the spot while shattering bursts of pleasure surged through her body. What was he doing to her? Could she stand much more? Already her eyes wanted to close, her strength was waning. But she fought to stay awake. She wanted him. She needed the power of his body and spirit to nourish her own, just as she knew he needed her to absorb his madness with her love.

“Please, Mateo,” she whispered.

He barely heard the words, but they shot him through with longing.

His hands were on her belly now. He drew them down her legs and up the insides of her thighs. She quivered convulsively and moaned. Her eyes closed. Her hand groped for him, but he was out of her reach.

Then she felt the hot pulse of him, eager and ready to enter her. She relaxed, knowing—without realizing how she knew—that in the next instant she would be filled and satisfied, and Mateo would be cleansed.

He entered her ever so slowly, careful not to put undue pressure on her body. His movements were a tantalizing exercise in slow motion. In… and out, in… and out. She could feel every inch of him. When he drew away, her body tried to clutch him back. And all the while his hands played over her skin—teasing, exciting, raising her to a fever pitch.

When the moment of exquisite pleasure came, they shared it. Charlotte felt him now—filling her, anointing her, loving her as never before. She felt released from the pain of her body, the confusion in her mind, only to have the awful curse attack her senses in the next instant. But only one thing mattered: she and this man named Mateo were one. The two of them were like a great, soaring bird, flying toward the sun on shared wings… in one magnificent body. She could endure anything to have his love.

Then the terrible pain, which had racked her soul and rent her mind, vanished as quickly as it had come. The sheer release brought with it total exhaustion. Before Mateo could speak his love to her in words, Charlotte had once more lapsed into unconsciousness. He stared down at her still form, stricken.

“What did you do to her, Mateo?” Tamara demanded angrily. “I’ve told you not to disturb her. Now just look. She has slipped away again. Did you upset her in some way?”

Sick at heart, Mateo looked down at the pale woman on the pallet and whispered, “I made love to her.”

“Mateo!” Tamara’s voice betrayed her shock. “How could you?”

“How could I not? We needed each other.”

“Enough to bring on a relapse?” In an unaccustomed tirade, Tamara showered Mateo with a string of
Romani
oaths. “Men! I will never understand any of you!”

“I didn’t harm her, Tamara. I was very gentle.”

She looked at him as if he were a lunatic trying to convince her that he was perfectly sane. “Mateo, did she even know who you were?”

“Yes, I think she did.”

“You think?
You mean you aren’t even sure? You are mad! Don’t you see that you may have done her permanent damage? She may never come out of this.”

“But Tamara, she wanted it as much as I!”

“You mean she didn’t fight you?”

“No.”

“That proves nothing! How does a sick kitten fight off a tiger?”

They both stared down at Charlotte for a moment. Her breathing was so deep they could tell she was at some level beyond normal sleep.

“I think we must send for her family,” Tamara said finally. “That major at Fort Leavenworth knows how to reach them, doesn’t he?”

“It’s that bad?”

Tamara, taking pity on Mateo, touched his arm. “I’m afraid so,” she said softly. “And I don’t understand her illness. It is as if some terrible evil has a grip on her.” She shook her head sadly.

“I won’t let them take her away!” Mateo’s voice sounded in a sudden boom of rage.

Hearing him, Charlotte stirred slightly in her sleep, but neither of them noticed.

“You don’t have to worry about that right now, Mateo. No one is going to take her anywhere. She’s too ill to be moved.”

Charlotte was someplace far away, but trying desperately to get back. He was there. She had heard him speak. She fought to part a way through the dark storm clouds fogging her brain, but lightning flashed on all sides of her, forcing her back when she tried to surface.

The full moon rose, blinding her and making her cry out and turn away. But the great silver sphere seemed to control her mind and body. Why was the moon so evil now, when once it had been her friend? Nothing made sense anymore. Where was she? Who was she?

Silhouetted against the moon, other menaces threatened. An evil, dark-haired Gypsy and a woman wearing a purple scarf about her throat were coming for her. She tried desperately to get away, but the man lunged at her. The woman laughed and laughed—a terrible sound. She ran and ran, but they were everywhere, blocking her path.

When she did escape at last, she was lost in a forest filled with wild animals. A bear with a ring through its nose chased her. Then she was on the back of a black horse that breathed fire and raced with her at cyclone speed. She screamed and cried. Her body ached from the pounding force of his gallop. Pain shot through her fingers, cramping them so that she had to release her hold. Suddenly she was falling. Down and down and down. The wind buffeted her body. Rain lashed her face. Jagged lightning flashed and she saw Mateo’s face. She called to him, frantic now, but he turned away from her once more.

Down and down. Her fall seemed never to end. Her brain whirled and her spirit seemed about to be sucked from her body. If only her feet would touch earth, she might be able to hold on.

Then horror constricted her heart. She saw where she was about to land. The shining, distorted face of the full moon glared up at her, grinning like some demon from hell.

She heard her own scream just before she was swallowed up by the evil, smothering silver mass, which tore her body with pain even as it took possession of her very soul.

Jemima Buckland didn’t waste any time. She was packing to head out west the moment she’d read Winston Krantz’s first letter. No one, including her late husband, had ever written to her in such glowing terms. If ever a man’s words held an invitation, the major’s did.

And it wasn’t even his old Bostonian money that lured her, much as she wanted to save Fairview from the auction block. No! She really felt something for the man. In middle age—wonder of wonders—she was experiencing the euphoria of a first-time bride. Her marriage to Charlotte’s father had been connived at by her aunt and uncle. Albert Buckland had been a good man; no one disputed that. She simply hadn’t loved him. In fact, she had fought her relations tooth and nail, trying to get out of that match. But she had been young then—vulnerable and malleable. She had disgraced herself back home in Maryland, so she’d been forced into a marriage not of her choosing.

But Winston Krantz—here was another matter entirely. The man was refined, understanding, attractive in his own way,
and
he had money. What more could a widow ask?

“You’ve lost your mind, ’Mima Lewis!” Granny Fate ranted.

“The name is
Buckland,
if you please! And I know exactly what I’m doing! Winnie does everything but get down on one knee in this letter.” She waved the fervid missive under the old woman’s nose. “By the time he receives my reply and has had a few days to think about it, he’ll have a parson in tow when he meets me at the train. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life!”

The two women were in Fairview’s front parlor, surrounded by half-packed trunks and valises. Fatima Buckland couldn’t say she hated to see her daughter-in-law go—it was simply a matter of not relishing the thought of any woman acting like a fool by throwing herself at a man. What would ’Mima do if she got out there and found she’d misread his letter and his intentions? The whole idea didn’t make a thimbleful of sense!

“What about Charlotte?” demanded Granny Fate. “Have you given any thought to her feelings?”

Jemima turned a hard look on the older woman. “Did either of you give any thought to
my
feelings or Winston’s when you helped her run off in the middle of the night on the very eve of her wedding? No, quite frankly, I haven’t bothered to consider her. I don’t feel any obligation to do so. Besides, Winston’s letter proves that he was clearly interested in me before I offered him Charlotte as his bride. If only he’d been more vocal at the time, he and I might be married already.”

“So your plan is to pack up and go traipsing off—just like that?” Granny Fate snapped her golden-ringed fingers.

Jemima snapped hers right back.
“Just like that!”

“You’re acting crazy, ’Mima!” Granny Fate knew her words were falling on deaf ears, but she had to try. Her Albert would want it.

Before Jemima could answer, the knocker at the front door banged loudly.

“Who on earth could that be?” Jemima said

She hurried to the door and opened it to find a messenger. “Special mail for you, ma’am. All the way from Leavenworth, Kansas.”

Jemima snatched the letter and shut the door, dismissing the courier without so much as the offer of a cup of tea. She stared at it, almost afraid to open the envelope when she recognized Winston Krantz’s handwriting. Would it be a proposal or a rejection?

“Who was it, ’Mima?” Granny Fate asked

“A messenger,” she answered distractedly. “He’s brought a letter from Winnie.”

“Well, land’s sake, girl, open it up!”

Jemima tore into it, feeling her heart race as she scanned the page, then read it aloud to Granny Fate.

Jemima Buckland stood very still, clutching the letter to her heart. This was almost too good to be true. Although she would never have let Granny Fate know it, she hadn’t been entirely sure that Winnie would accept her. Now that worry was erased from her mind. She would be his bride!

And as much as she had ranted and raved against Charlotte and her obstinate behavior, deep down she had been worried about her daughter. She was relieved to know where Charlotte was at last. As for her injuries, Jemima felt confident from the tone of Winston’s letter that Charlotte would recover fully. She needed her mother, that was all.

Jemima was so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the sparkle in Granny Fate’s dark eyes or the secretive smile on her face. “Gypsies!” the woman muttered to herself.

Far from disturbing her, the thought that her granddaughter had been kidnapped by Mateo’s people seemed the most romantic escapade she could imagine. And Charlotte was “being taken care of by a Gypsy prince, at that! It was thrilling.

“Well, what are you standing around mooning about, ’Mima? Let’s finish packing these bags!” Granny Fate said, interrupting her daughter-in-law’s daydreaming.

The two women launched themselves into a flurry of activity.

Queen Zolande, alone in her tent, fretted over Charlotte’s condition. If the woman didn’t recover, the curse would continue.

“She can’t die! She has no reason to. Mateo loves her and needs her.” Zolande glared up at an ancient portrait of Sara-la-Kali hanging over her bed and shook a fist at the lovely saint. The queen had given up praying and was now threatening. “I won’t have it, do you hear? She
will
stay alive to marry my son!”

The old queen slumped in her chair. She shouldn’t let herself get so upset. If she made herself ill, poor Tamara would have two patients to deal with, and she needed all her energy to save Charlotte Buckland.

To distract herself from her worries, Zolande recounted the tale of Valencia’s curse in her mind. The Gypsies prided themselves on their verbal accounts. No incident in their history was ever lost, although no written records existed. Tales were told and told again—a thousand times over around the campfires.

The queen thought of Xendar’s disgrace and Valencia’s fury. Mateo, through his father, was descended directly from the child of the forbidden union. But where did Charlotte Buckland fit into the scheme of things? The girl obviously had no idea she was of Gypsy ancestry. The old queen shook her head. The more she worried over the question, the more muddled the problem became in her mind. She would simply have to trust in Fate.

“And in love,” she added aloud.

“Excuse me, my queen,” Tamara’s voice broke in. “I called from outside, but you seemed to be napping.”

Zolande motioned for the woman to come in. “Not napping, only lost in thought. What is it, my dear?”

Tamara’s face showed the strain of her constant vigil at Charlotte’s bedside. She said, “I don’t know what to do, Queen Zolande. Her illness is beyond my comprehension. I have tried everything, but nothing helps her. If she should die…”

“Silence! Do not even think such a thought. She
must
live! She will live for Mateo’s sake. Now that he may have found his golden Gypsy, she cannot slip away. It would be the end of us all.”

“Mateo has returned from Fort Leavenworth.”

The queen’s eyes widened. “They did not arrest him?”

“No. He is free and unharmed. They even returned his stallions. He says their yellow-haired colonel was most understanding.”

“What happened, then?”

“Major Krantz has sent for Charlotte’s mother and grandmother. And their physician has come to look at her.”

“Good. Perhaps he has thought of some cure we have overlooked. You say her family is coming?”

Tamara nodded.

“That is good! Go back to Charlotte now, child. She needs your strength.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Unfortunately, the strength Charlotte needed most was being denied her. Mateo, morose from guilt and grief, had kept to himself in the woods for several days—thinking, fasting, and praying to Sara-la-Kali. He remained close enough to camp to find out if there was any change in Charlotte’s condition, but he dared not trust himself near her after what had happened. He was sure that his lovemaking had done her grave harm. So now, although he ached for her every moment, he denied himself any thoughts of pleasure, passion, or love. He had cast himself out in much the same manner that Valencia exiled Xendar so long ago. He knew his ancestor’s pain.

Twilight was coming on, and great, purple clouds boiled up on the horizon. Mateo strode back and forth, his heavy boots crushing a path through the winter-hard buffalo grass. The day was cold, the air frosty, but he never noticed. His bare chest—crisscrossed with many wounds inflicted by his own sharp blade during the past few days—took the full brunt of the winter wind. He dared it to freeze him! He tramped on, head down, eyes clouded, communing silently with the spirit of the north wind.

Surely there must be something he could do. He felt so helpless. He dropped to his knees before an altar of stones he had erected for his private use. A strange, half-faced image of Sara-la-Kali stared down on him. The ancient icon of ivory and gold—shattered in rage almost a century before he was born—rested atop the pile of rocks. He mumbled a few prayers, but his mind wandered and he broke off in midsentence. Was the holy Handmaiden even listening to him? It didn’t seem so. He had offered her everything he could think of. He would give up his right to the throne. He would never perform again. He would leave his
familia
and live among strangers, if only he could have Charlotte by his side. For days now, he had shunned food, shelter, companionship. How much more could she ask? He buried his face in his hands and sighed wearily.

Suddenly, the wind shifted and the aroma of roasting venison drifted to him from the nearby Gypsy camp. His stomach muscles contracted at the smell, twisting and complaining of emptiness. He grabbed his belly convulsively, but he rejoiced in the pain. It was only just! Why should he be free of suffering while the woman he loved lay wasting away?

He sat up abruptly with the crystal-clear vision that often comes from fasting. At last, Sara-la-Kali had answered his prayers! He should have realized his mistake before now. What did the saint care if he slashed his flesh to ribbons, starved it, or froze it to solid ice? These were punishments of the body, not the soul. In order to appease her, he must give up what meant the most to him in all the world. He must tear out his own heart and present it to her as a sacrifice. Only then would she believe in his faith in her and his love for Charlotte Buckland. Only then would she allow his golden Gypsy to live.

But what sacrifice would be great enough to satisfy Sara the Black?

Suddenly, Mateo knew what he must do!

He stripped off his boots and buckskin britches and waded into the icy waters of the bathing stream. Plunging below the surface, he let the current carry him where it would. His body grew numb with cold and his lungs burned for air, but still he went with the flow. Not until the blackness began to close over his open eyes and he had his sign would he return to the world above.

At first he was blind in the cold water, but soon his sight cleared and the holy Handmaiden provided him with visions. He knew a sacrifice must be made. But what?
What?

As the current dragged him along, pounding him, bruising his flesh against boulder and bank, his life unfolded before him. He saw himself as a small boy—in Russia first, riding over the mounds of snow in a bright red sleigh pulled by a matched team of four gray horses. Silver sleigh bells tinkled in the crisp air, and he could once again smell the familiar odors of leather and lathered horseflesh. Then he was in Spain, riding along the golden beach—the sun on his face, the wind in his hair, a swift cloud-white stallion beneath him. Italy, France, Wales; he relived his adolescent years, his young manhood, his coming of age. And always there were his horses.

His final vision was of himself and the Golden One astride his great black stallions. They rode around and around the ring in perfect step, their timing exact. He saw himself dismount, reach into his pocket, and bring out a lump of sugar. He felt a warm muzzle in his cold hand. He heard his horse whinny its thanks… its love. He felt his heart swell with pride and tender affection. And in that awful instant, he knew!

The cold water chilled him through. He thrashed to be out of its clutches. It filled his nostrils and burned into his lungs. Fighting, raging, sobbing, he dragged himself onto the shore. He lay naked and shivering on the bank, pounding the frozen earth with clenched fists.