Potent Charms (27 page)

Emotion filled him. First came pride, followed by an
unbearable longing that made breathing difficult. He recognized the stirring of something other than lust, and it terrified him. Like a window to her heart, Phoebe's open gaze
met his. She beckoned to him.

It was an offer to share her victory, but more, it was a
promise to ease his loneliness. She offered the key to
unlock the emotions he'd successfully buried for all these
years.

Rhys clamped a hand on Stephen's shoulder. "What will
you do?"

"What can I do?"

"That is a question only you can answer, my friend. But
look at her, the way she watches you. A man would be a
fool not to listen to eyes that speak from the heart the way
hers do."

Ignoring his friend, Stephen fought to recall the image
of Emily's twisted limbs amid a pool of blood, her last
gasp of life. Maybe he did choose the coward's way. He
didn't care, he couldn't afford to. Desperate to escape,
knowing that if he went to Phoebe now he might not have
the power to refuse what she silently asked of him, he
stomped into the shelter of the forest.

Her disappointment keen, Phoebe watched Stephen separate
himself from Rhys and disappear into the woods. What did
he expect from her? She'd seen his eyes as she dashed across
the finish line, witnessed the pride and much more. Stuff and
nonsense. Maybe she saw only what she hoped for.

Rhys sauntered to Phoebe's side and lifted her from the
saddle. "Now we celebrate."

Rhys led her to a small wagon and pushed her inside. A
mound of blankets and pillows topped a bed that stretched
from end to end near the back. Two chests sat beneath the
bed. Boxes and baskets were stacked on top of one another
along the sides. Brightly covered shawls, silky scarves and
pots and pans hung from a wooden bar. A gypsy named
Anna moved about the cramped space with an ease born
from years of experience that one learned when all one's
worldly possessions fit in a wooden box on wheels. Anna
placed a bucket of water and a rag on top of a three-legged
stool and gestured for Phoebe to wash.

Stripping down to her shift, Phoebe asked, "Why is
everyone being so nice? I won."

"True, but nothing was lost. The horse was yours to
begin with." The gypsy laughed at Phoebe's wide-eyed
expression. "Do not be shocked. Ariana found the horse.
Had you not appeared she would own a fine animal. When
you did come, it became a matter of pride. Also, she saw
Rhys look at you. She forgets he is noble and can never be
hers."

"Rhys is a...he's not a..."

"Rhys is a bastard. Half gypsy, half English. This is his
land. Does that shock you?"

Phoebe had wondered about the bond the three men
apparently shared, but she would never have guessed that
bit of information. She answered, scrubbing her face vigorously. "I know better than to make assumptions. I'm just
surprised. Rarely are things as they appear."

"Very true and very wise. Today you rode like a gypsy."
Anna pulled a woven skirt and a flowing white shirt from
one chest. "Tonight you dress like one. Your man will be
pleased."

"He's not exactly my man. I mean, I'd like him to be, but
he has other ideas."

"Fire bums in his eyes. Tonight it will be difficult for
him to refuse you. Rhys said you had questions. This gadjo
nobleman, he is why you came here?"

"I had hoped to gather some information," Phoebe said,
as she fingered the skirt, a luscious blend of purples that
seemed to shimmer with life. Casting aside any modesty,
she slipped her shift to the floor and slid her arms into the
shirt. It fell from one shoulder and draped suggestively
across her breasts. The skirt came next, flowing to her
ankles. She twirled in the cramped confines of the wagon,
relishing the freedom of movement in the outfit, the soft
swish of the fabric.

Anna tossed the water from the wagon and pointed to
the small stool. "Sit. Ask."

Phoebe explained the curse, providing what details she
knew. Anna asked several questions as she loosened the
remnants of Phoebe's braid and silently combed her hair.
Finally Anna asked, "Does your man believe in the power
of such a curse?"

"I believe so. Certainly, he credits himself responsible
for the death of two women and refuses us a chance to be
together as man and wife. I hoped to find a way to change
his mind."

"Cursed or not, who can say for sure. A curse or a charm
of any kind usually works with a man's beliefs, his guilt,
his fear or his greed. Like a child, if told enough times that
he is ugly, he will come to accept it as truth. Your man's
heart holds the answers he needs, but he must find them
himself. Let me see your palm."

Phoebe extended her hand. Anna gently flattened her
fingers over Phoebe's and began to trace and study the
lines. She rubbed back and forth several times. "I see a
long life for you, my child, with many children."

Long life was good, thought Phoebe. And children. She
wanted children, but whoever was the father?

Anna continued, "You will fall in love with one man, but
the man you marry will be different."

Phoebe didn't like the way that sounded. "You mean I
won't marry Stephen."

"The palm does not tell me a name. It shows me a life
with different paths. You will marry and you can be happy
if you allow it."

Phoebe was more confused than ever and she'd hidden
from Stephen long enough. By the time she emerged from
the wagon, the shadows of night had overtaken the day.
Flames shot skyward from a roaring fire. Laughter, music
and the tantalizing aroma of food drifted about the glen.

As she crossed the encampment, searching for a familiar
face, she realized why Ariana walked as she did. The skirt danced about her ankles, the soft muslin shirt slid sensuously over her unbound breasts. Her hair fell uninhibited
down her back and swung back and forth across her hips.
Tonight, away from the scornful eye of her aunt, the constant scrutiny of the Ton, Phoebe felt free for the first time
in weeks. This time was only a brief respite, a false image
of reality, but she would enjoy every single moment
nonetheless.

Elizabeth and Winston talked with Anna on one side of the
fire while Rhys and Stephen sat on a blanket, their backs
pressed against a log. When Phoebe approached, unsure of
what Stephen might do, she stood perfectly still. The
minute he noticed her, he edged over and extended his
hand. Evidently he'd forgotten his earlier private tantrum.

A woman brought a plate heaped with food. Phoebe's
stomach growled in response. No small wonder. She
hadn't eaten since early that morning. Tearing away a
piece of roasted meat, she asked, "Where are Winston and
Elizabeth going?"

"It's likely Elizabeth's attempt to leave you and I alone
together."

"So you can murder me without witnesses," she grumbled.

"It's doubtful that witnesses would factor into the equation. I'd plead my case and the House of Lords would
likely find in my favor."

Beside them, Rhys chuckled.

She momentarily considered arguing the point, but
instead chose to ignore the rude men and their silly opinions. She would let nothing dispel the magic of the night.
She was with Stephen, far from London, amongst people
who led a life unlike any she had ever known. Possibilities
abounded. "Then I guess I'd best enjoy myself for as long
as I have to live."

"What are you contemplating now?" Stephen said.

"Whatever do you mean?" Phoebe asked, wondering
how he knew her mind as well as he did.

"I recognize that gleam in your eye, the manner in
which you nibble your thumb when you've thought something through and reached a conclusion of sorts. Given our
past encounters, it makes me wary."

She jerked her thumb from her mouth and placed
another bite of food in its place. "Has anyone ever told you
that you are a suspicious man? What trouble could I possibly find here?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Given sufficient
time, I'm sure you could propel England into a major war."

"Surely you jest, my friend," Rhys said, as he reached
for a pitcher of ale. "She is but a mere woman."

"Mere woman? I'll have you know women are not mere
anything. We are capable of great things. It's the men who
bind us to our embroidery, menus and balls."

"I see what you mean," Rhys agreed. "She is a handful.
The kind that a man would possess and never want to lose
sight of." Grinning, he left Phoebe and Stephen alone to
join a burly man who held a strange-looking violinlike
instrument.

She asked, "What did he mean?"

"Nothing." Everything. Rhys had been very direct in his
observations. He considered Stephen a blind-eyed lobcock,
tied to his past.

"How do you know Rhys?"

"I imagine our friendship took you quite by surprise.
The Ton would likely find some nefarious reason for our
relationship."

"Are you going to tell me or just make cryptic, self-deprecating comments all night?"

"Pardon me, I forgot your decision to act as my champion." He draped one arm over his bent knee and stared into the flames, recalling a time long ago. "By the time I
was fourteen, my heritage was well and goodly ensconced
in my mind. After all, I'd heard the stories of my ancestors
since the day I was born, and society's harsh critics had
reminded me often enough in case my father had neglected
his duties. We'd been discussing the infamous three
witches from Macbeth when a schoolmate made the mistake of taunting my illustrious background. Something
snapped. I beat him to a bloody pulp." He noted her shock.
"No need to worry, Phoebe. That was before I learned to
control my anger."

"He deserved whatever he got."

A smile tugged at his lips. Her unconditional loyalty
always surprised him. Clearing his throat, he said, `Bloodthirsty wench, aren't you? Anyway, I was suspended from
school for two weeks and sent home, where I suffered a
long lecture from my father all about accepting my miserable fate. A band of gypsies happened to be traveling
nearby, and feeling justified for surely they were the
cause of all my troubles - I sought someone, anyone, to
punish. Rhys was the unfortunate recipient of my ire.

"He was sitting by a lake tossing rocks into the water.
Little did I know that he was dealing with his own demons.
It's not easy being the bastard son of a nobleman who
refuses to claim you. Needless to say, when we came
together we were like two quarreling hounds set on
destruction. We near killed one another. Bruised and
bloodied, realizing there would be no victor, we both collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. One thing led to
another and we struck a mutual friendship. Over the years,
both of us have learned to accept our lots in life."

That blind acceptance was what she fought, the passive
resignation when she wanted Stephen to rebel. Tracing a
deep purple thread in the skirt with her finger, she said, "I
feel rather silly now for thinking I could come here in your defense. I'm sure you've asked questions aplenty about the
curse."

"Until I realized I'd never truly have the answers I
sought. All I discovered were riddles, none of which
altered the fact that five women married into the Badrick
line and died. There are some things in life that simply
can't be explained." He entwined his fingers with hers. "Or
changed."

His message was clear, and it was no different than the
one he'd given her since they first met. But foolish or not,
she refused to listen. She turned from the chocolate eyes
that pleaded with her to accept, to submit, and allowed the
hypnotic rhythm of the gypsy music to flow through her.
Soon her feet were tapping. She clapped to the pulsing
beat.

Ariana stood and with nimble feet began to move. She
circled the fire and stood before Phoebe, her hands boldly
fisted on her hips. "Today you rode like a gypsy. Tonight
let us see if you can dance like one."

Phoebe stared open-mouthed for a moment, unsure
whether to accept the challenge, for surely that was what it
was. Like the pounding of drums, musical notes bombarded her body, gathering power. She watched Ariana
sway to the rhythm. With her arms high above her head,
her hands extensions of her arms, she opened and closed
her fingers one at a time like the circular motion of a fan.
Phoebe rose from the ground with grace and determination
and matched Ariana's movements.

Her feet began to shift, a mix of tapping and stomping
movements. Phoebe allowed her mind to drift, her body
caressed by the cool night air, the heat of the fire and the
burning appreciation she witnessed in Stephen's eyes. Several women joined them, and Phoebe thought it the most
exquisite, most decadent thing she had ever done.

Stephen had seen gypsy women dance before, had enjoyed their lithe movements, their open sensuality, but
nothing compared with watching Phoebe. She circled the
fire with her face deep in concentration and her eyes halfclosed. Her hair, a cascade of flaming curls, shone like a
sunset over the Caribbean. God, he wanted her. Right now.
More so than the first time he'd lain with the servant girl
who'd first seduced him, more than Emily and Louisa, and
more than every mistress since. Phoebe vanquished all
women with the gentle swirl of her hips.

His fingers ached to touch the bare alabaster flesh of her
shoulders, to kiss the slightly parted lips, to suckle the
breasts that teased him with every dip and rise of her arms.
He wanted, no, needed, to bury himself deep within her
heat and claim her as his. The music grew bolder, more
urgent. Ariana grasped Phoebe's hands and, with their
arms extended before them and crossed at the wrist, they
spun in a tight circle, their faces tipped to the heavens, their
hair flying like black and auburn pennons behind them.
With a wild thrum of strings, the music came to its end.
The pulse drumming in Stephen's head, throughout his
body, continued to pound.