The Heather Moon (24 page)

"Is it the custom to marry at dawn?" The sky had lightened further, but the gloom of night still clung in the shadows.

"In the Romany way, dancing and feasting take place before the wedding vows, not after. On the last day of the celebration, the oaths are taken before the night ends." She glanced at him briefly. "The bride and groom would have said their vows last night, but the wedding was delayed."

"Do you want to join them to attend the wedding?" he asked. "I will wait, if you wish."

She shook her head. "I will watch from here. The bride and her close kin willna want me among them." Her voice was flat, lacking emotion. She sat the horse with simple ease, her back straight, her head proud on her long neck. But he glimpsed something fragile in the depth of her eyes.

"Then we will watch from here," he said softly. "If you dinna mind the company."

She did not reply, her gaze intent on the scene below. The gypsies came toward the crossing and surrounded it. William watched as John Faw walked toward the center, staying outside the heart itself. He addressed the Romany, and then beckoned. The bride and groom came forward and stepped into the center of the heart. Faw tied their hands together with a red cloth.

William gave Tamsin a questioning look. "My grandfather, as the leader of the Romany," she explained, "will ask them to say their vows there. He binds their wrists together to symbolize the union. Then..." She paused.

He saw the glint of a blade. "What...?"

He heard her take a long, quavery breath. "He... makes small cuts on their wrists. They allow their blood to mingle, and speak their pledges to each other. 'Tis all that is needed to seal a Romany marriage."

A thought flashed and was gone, so quickly that he could not catch it. He watched the bride and groom. The earthy sincerity of the simple ritual touched him deeply. John Faw released the hands of the bride and groom, and they spoke. Then the whole group began to wend back toward the camp. Voices joined and lifted in song as they walked.

"'Tis done," Tamsin said.

"I wish them well," William said softly, half to himself.

Tamsin opened her mouth as if to speak, but looked away, her lip and chin quivering. "I must tell you something," she said at last. He frowned, narrowed his eyes, sensing that whatever she had to say was a burden for her. He waited.

"I spoke with my grandparents for a long while before we left the camp," she began. "You likely heard some of it, for we raised our voices."

"I noticed the dispute," he answered. "But I did not understand the language."

"My grandfather wanted me to wed a man of his choosing," she said. "He wanted me to stand in that heart circle with a Romany man, someone who has offered to wed me. I refused. My grandfather was very upset with me."

"He seemed pleased enough by the time we left," he said, though he felt a surprising sense of jealousy simmer within him. He did not like the thought of her wed to someone else. The thought startled him, for he had no claim to her himself. "The argument seems to have been resolved," he added.

She bowed her head, her dark hair sliding forward. "That is what I must tell you," she said. "The resolution. My grandfather wanted me to wed. If I didna choose a husband, any husband, he threatened to banish me from the Romany."

"Banishment?" he asked. "Exile?"

She nodded. "A Romany who is cast out can never go back, unless forgiveness is given. I didna think he would do that to me in truth," she said quickly, "but he mentioned it, which proved how angry he was, how frustrated. How much he wanted me to marry. I couldna... I couldna bear to be banished," she said. "It frightened me to hear him say it. I dinna live with them most of the year, and 'tis true that many of the Romany dinna welcome me. But my grandparents' wagon is my home, as much as Merton Rigg is my home. I need to be free to come and go there, to be welcomed at my grandmother's fire, as I have always been." She stopped, drew a breath.

"I understand." William felt a twist of sympathy. "I know what 'tis like to be taken away from kin and home, lass. Believe me, you dinna want to endure that."

He had been thirteen years old when he had been taken from Rookhope by force and put in the custody of the crown as a pledge for his disobedient Scott kinsmen. He was a man before he saw his mother and his siblings again.

He looked out over the blanket of mist lifting from the moorland. He remembered the cold ride through the glen on the day that his father had died, and felt, once again, the keen pain of that forced parting. The awful loneliness of it, which he had never lost in all the years since.

And then he remembered, like a companion image, the sight of Archie and Tamsin Armstrong, together on a horse at the crest of a hill, like the hill he and Tamsin were on now. He recalled their silent salutes to him, and the way they had watched him, like an honor guard, a gesture of respect. He felt a new rush of gratitude for their gift of friendship—and love—at a time when those had been torn from him.

He drew a breath. "Have you decided to wed this Romany man, and so stay within the circle of your grandfather's band? Is that what you wanted to tell me?" he asked.

She shook her head vehemently, tears pooling in her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her bare hand. "Nay," she said, her voice cracking a little. "I didna agree to wed him. I could never do that. I agreed..." She gulped then, and covered her mouth with her hand, holding back a sob.

He wanted to reach out to her, felt an overwhelming urge to touch her, hold her, not presently for the lust that seemed to flare whenever he was near her, but to comfort her. But a hand, a shoulder to lean upon, a word or two while she cried, would not ease the hurt and confusion she felt. He knew that.

And he knew too that she was too proud, too strong, to allow herself to lean on him. He sat his horse beside her and watched as a tear slipped down the honey curve of her cheek. He fisted a hand, tensed his stomach against the wrenching in his heart, so intense was his urge to take her into his arms.

She brushed the back of her hand over her cheek and lifted her head proudly. Then she lifted the reins and guided her horse down the long slope. William followed, stilling his horse at the empty crossing when Tamsin did. With a sigh, she dismounted and went to the heart circle. After a moment, he climbed down and went to stand beside her. He saw the glint of more tears, blinked back.

"Tamsin." He stepped close, unable to stop himself from reaching out, resting his fingers on her shoulder. "What is it? What happened between you and your grandparents?"

She turned her head away from him, but let his hand stay. He felt her heat sink into him, felt her hair drift soft over his skin. He sensed regret, even guilt, within her.

He wanted to help her in her distress, in return for that long-ago day when she, as a child, had made a gesture of such simple sweetness that it had settled soft in the niche of his heart like a dove roosting, and had never left him. Now, as he stood with her, linked to her only by the touch of his palm to her shoulder, he wanted to give something much greater in return for that old, tender gift. He wanted to repay her and her father somehow, and found, simply, that he did not know how.

"My disobedience in refusing Baptiste shames my grandparents," she said. "My marriage, my obedience, would give them great joy. Such things are of enormous importance to the Romany. I want you to understand that." She drew a breath.

"I do understand," he said. "Is there some other man you can marry, then, and still please them?" The words sparked a dark jealousy in him once again. He admonished himself for it, yet could not deny its existence.

He was surprised to hear a soft, tiny laugh escape her lips. She stared down at the heart-shaped circle. "My grandfather has tried to find me a husband. My father has tried even longer. No man has ever wanted me, or offered for me, until this Romany."

"Dinna tell me no one wants you, lass," he said. He watched her in the rising light of dawn. "I would think many men would want the chance to wed such a bonny, bold lass as you."

I want you,
he thought suddenly, the certainty of it so strong, so fierce, that he nearly said it aloud, astonishing himself, and stopped the words as they formed.

"'Tis well known that no Borderman, and no Romany either—until Baptiste Lallo—will have the daughter of Archie Armstrong," she said. "None want a half gypsy, with but half... half a hand, to wife." She shrugged as if to dismiss all of those who thought so. But when she tipped her head a little, he saw the hurt in her eyes.

"Then your father and your grandfather havena asked the right man," he said quietly.

She laughed, rueful and humorless. "My father has asked near every man he meets," she said.

"He hasna asked me." His words were quiet, impulsive.

She caught her breath. "You?" she asked. "What... what would you have said to him, had he asked you to consider a lass such as me to wife?" She turned her head and looked at him.

In her eyes, as lucid as light shining through green glass, he saw hope, and fear, and fire. He glimpsed the flame that was so essential to her being, diminished by the rejection of so many. The vulnerability he saw in the depths of her eyes tugged at his heart.

He wanted no part of extinguishing her spirit. As much trouble as she had been to him, as much trouble as she yet might be, he admired her spark, enjoyed it, wanted it to flare again.

The elusive thought that had escaped him earlier, while he had watched the gypsy wedding, suddenly returned with startling clarity. The realization that came with it bloomed and grew, opening with possibility. Within an instant, a cool sweat broke over him, and his heart began to pound.

He had not answered her yet. She looked away, let out a long sigh, and began to walk toward her horse.

"Tamsin," he said.

He must be mad, he told himself. One night with the gypsies had thrown him into a state of utter lunacy. He need say nothing to her of his wild thought. He need offer only sympathy, and give her a boost up into her saddle, and take her to Rookhope for a fortnight as arranged. That was the safe path.

He did not want the safe path, this time. He knew that, and did not know why. And suddenly did not care.

"Tamsin," he repeated. He walked toward her.

She turned, her brow creased slightly, and waited.

"I would have told your father," he said, "that I would be honored to be your husband."

She stared up at him, her mouth open slightly, as if she were made speechless, utterly stunned.

"And I would have told him," he went on, "that you and I were already wed."

Chapter 15

"Said the youthful earl to the gypsy girl,

As the moon was casting its silver shine

Brown little lady, Egyptian lady,

Let me kiss those sweet lips of thine."

—English Gypsy Song

"'Tis true, is it not?" he asked. "You knew about this."

A blush spread into her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes.
Aye,
he thought,
she knew.
She would have known from the first. He wondered if her heart pounded as his did.

He stood watching the dark crown of her head, and waited for her answer. "I knew about it, aye," she finally whispered.

"Then what happened between us in Musgrave's dungeon was..." He wanted her to finish his thought. He wanted to be sure.

"There was no intent between us. 'Twas an accident." She kept her head lowered, as if she could not look at him. "You wouldna want me to wife."

"Apparently I already have you to wife," he said wryly.

"But we are not truly wed, by Scottish custom."

"Are we," he asked, "by Romany custom?"

She nodded, swallowed. "My grandfather regards it as a marriage," she said. "He—he knows about this. So does my grandmother. They said it was no accident, but a marriage made by fate between us, bonding us together. They are sure 'tis destiny." She glanced up at him with a slight grimace, as if she expected him to protest, loud and sure.

He only huffed out in surprise. "Marriage by fate?"

She nodded, miserable. "My grandfather saw the wound, and Nona had seen yours. They regard the accident between us as greatly significant. My grandparents respect incidents of fate. They say 'tis the presence and the will of... what the Christians call God, and must be honored as such."