you will not talk so much.’ And she walked away, returning to her tent and pulling the flap closed behind her.
Verity sat alone by the fire, chewing upon the crust of bread, waiting to see what would happen next. Whatever she had expected of a Gypsy camp, it was not what she was seeing. After the half-hearted threat when she had tried to leave, the people were showing her no interest, too caught up in the work of the day to care about a stranger in their midst. There was the regular clink, clink of someone hammering a patch onto a pot, and another man worked the bellows over a small, portable forge.
A few men worked together over a lathe, turning what appeared to be chair legs, or spindles for a banister. While they worked, they chatted in the strange language that the old woman spoke, sometimes resorting to a phrase or two of English before someone nodded in her direction and put a stop to it. Women tended fires and children, hung washing or swept debris from the floors of their tents. Everywhere she looked, people seemed busy.
All except her.
And she could not help the creeping feeling that she got on the back of her neck sometimes, that she was meant to be doing something, or being something, or going somewhere. Last night, Stephen Hebden had called her useless. She feared it was true. If the future had plans for her, she must hope that it would require nothing more taxing than watercolour drawing and excellent table manners. And playing the harp, of course.
Uncle Robert had insisted that she continue her lessons during her visit with him. As she played, the ethereal sound of the instrument made her feel even less content than before. When people heard her practice, they made what they thought were flattering comments about her angelic nature. But from the way their attention seemed to drift as they talked to her, she suspected that, while they might claim to like angels very much, the company of them was sought in moderation and tempered with that of much more earthly women.
She watched the angle of the light passing through the leaves, changing as the sun moved through the sky. And she wondered again at her location. Perhaps now that the people around her were too busy to notice, she should try again to slip away. But if she did escape, where would she go?
Home, of course. She would find someone to escort her back to London. But of late, with Father sick and everyone else grown busy with their new lives, home did not really feel like home to her.
She glanced around the camp again. But neither did this place, with its distant inhabitants and glowing sunlight. She had not slept since the Gypsy had kidnapped her, and now that she had opportunity, she was too tired to run away. Thanks to the old woman, she was neither as hungry nor as cold as she had been. Perhaps, after a nap, she would be better able to think of a way out of this dilemma. She closed her eyes and let her head loll.
Chapter Four
It took longer than expected for Stephano to return to camp that night. He was not used to the new location, after the recent move. His family had chosen wisely, for the spot was so subtle and well disguised that he had needed to stop and observe the patrin that had been left to mark the way. A broken twig here, a torn leaf there, a bundle of flowers tied to a branch. All served as indicators that he must go left or right through the trees to find the camp again, on ways so small it was almost as great a challenge to ride his horse as it had been to steer the gig when he had taken Verity Carlow.
It told him something of her cleverness, that his captive had turned his momentary confusion on the previous night into an escape attempt. If she was as sharp today, he would be hard-pressed to keep track of her. The trip to London and back had left him dull witted. His head hurt, and the cut on his hand pained him more than it should.
They must be growing near, for his big black stallion, Zor, pricked up his ears, and fought to set his own pace. It was not worth struggling for control, so he gave the beast its head, and in no time, the journey was done.
As he fed and groomed his horse, from every corner of the camp he heard cries of ‘Stephano! Sastimos, Stephano!’ And felt an answering surge of joy at the warmth of their greetings. Children crowded around him, begging for the bag of sweets they knew he would bring. The sun was dropping towards the horizon, and he could smell the evening meals cooking on the fires inside the circle of tents. The women shouted warnings to their offspring about ruined suppers and gave him half-hearted scolds about sweets before a meal. But they smiled as they did it, and he knew that there would be a plate of food waiting for him at any campfire he chose.
For a moment, the warmth and friendship overcame the headache which was rising again as he prepared for the angry confrontation that awaited him on the other side of his vardo door. By now, Verity Carlow would be hungry, as well as cold. And since it was unlikely that she had missed a meal in twenty-one years, she would be overcome by the hardship. Her temper would be somewhere between merely foul and completely hysterical. And he would be forced to bear the brunt of it, without response. He had promised Keddinton that he would not hurt her, nor did he wish to.
But life would be much easier if he gave over the last of his scruples and settled violence with violence. To follow the way of his mother’s curse, guided by fate and the pain in his head, made life far too complicated. If he wished revenge against any of the Carlow men, it would have been so much easier to catch them unawares and knife them in the ribs. Or meet them on the field of honour, as his father would have wanted. He was proficient with a variety of weapons, and sure of success because right was on his side.
And as for the girl?
Her golden brown hair was the colour of wild honey, and she had skin like fresh milk. It made him hungry, in so many ways, to think of her. And the look in her huge eyes when they’d danced had been a mixture of innocence and curiosity, just as the colour of them had blended green and brown. Although she had been by far the most cautious member of her family, he had seen the way she’d looked at him, last night in the vardo. She would put up a token resistance to his advances, before offering her maidenhead. And when he’d had his fill of milk and honey, he could have laughed at her disgrace and sent her home to break her father’s heart.
As his own father had done to his mother. The thought set his head to hammering again. He suspected that the spirit of his mother would have more sympathy for the girl than she would for her own son, and would make him suffer greatly should he abuse her.
If only to save himself a headache, he would treat Verity Carlow with respect, if not with kindness. She could have her ragged dress back and a bowl of stew for supper. And she would sleep alone in his bed, which was the softest in the camp. He would turn a deaf ear to her complaints. In a week or less, her father would be begging to get her back, and Stephano would be glad to be rid of her.
He glanced over at his grandmother’s tent, and at the trim Romany girl that sat on the bench beside it. Soon he would settle the Beshaley curse. And if he survived the experience, he would spend his evenings by the fire in camp, flirting with a pretty girl like that. He would have a happy wife, and a vardo full of children.
And then, the last rays of sun touched the honey-blond hair of the girl by the fire. His anger at his own mistake made his head ring with pain as sharp and clear as ever he’d felt. He handed the last of the candy from his pocket to the nearest child, and stalked across the camp to confront his escaped prisoner. ‘What are you doing, out of the wagon?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Lady Verity Carlow gave him a frigid smile. ‘Did you mean for me to remain there? You did not say.’
‘I thought the message was clear enough.’
‘I assumed that you had come to your senses, and sent the old lady to feed and clothe me, as an apology.’ She lifted her chin and gathered
