Claiming the Forbidden Bride. Gayle Wilson

I been overcome by fever?’

      ‘And a blow to the head.’ With her thumb she touched a place on his temple, causing him to flinch.

      The movement was too sudden, setting off the now-familiar peal of anvils against his skull. He closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was endure until the pain and the nausea had faded.

      ‘I’m sorry. I should have known better. I can give you something for the pain.’

      She began to turn, but before she could complete the motion, his fingers fastened around her wrist. ‘No.’

      He’d had experience with the drugs the doctors gave to deaden pain. And far more memorable experiences with learning to do without them. He could better endure the ache in his head than endure that again.

      Her eyes had widened at his command, but she didn’t argue. Nor did she pull her arm away.

      ‘As you wish,’ she said simply and then waited.

      After a moment Rhys found the presence of mind to release her. Even after she’d gone, however, taking the candle with her, it seemed he could still feel beneath his fingertips the cool, smooth skin that covered the slender wrist he’d grasped.

      And despite his exhaustion and the Gypsy’s potions, it was a long time before he could sleep.

      Nadya blew out the candle she carried and set it down on the floor beside the bed in her grandmother’s caravan. Angeline was already asleep there, snuggled under the covers like a tired puppy.

      Nadya lifted the piled quilts and slipped under them. She pulled the little girl to her, relishing the warmth of her body. Her chin settled atop the child’s head, but she didn’t close her eyes for a long time. Instead, she stared into the darkness, thinking about the Englishman.

      Stephano’s ultimatum didn’t worry her. After all, he would be away for the next few days—as he had been for most of the spring and summer. Although her half-brother certainly had the authority he’d bragged about tonight, his own concerns had kept him from exercising the kind of control on the kumpania’s activities that her father had enforced. Besides, given the fact the gaujo was coherent tonight, his recovery would, in her experience, occur very quickly now.

      It wasn’t the possibility that she couldn’t get him out of the encampment fast enough to suit Stephano that kept her awake, staring into the darkness long after her daughter had fallen back into the innocent sleep of childhood. It was rather, she finally conceded, the probability that he would be gone long before her halfbrother returned to see if his orders had been obeyed.

      Why should she care if the gaujo she’d never laid eyes on until a week ago disappeared from her life? England was full of gadje. And most of the ones Nadya had met were more than eager to further their acquaintance with her.

      So what could it possibly matter if she never saw this one again? she asked herself with a small shrug of disdain. Feeling that motion, Angeline turned, settling more closely against her. As she returned the little girl’s embrace, Nadya reiterated the mantra she’d only tonight found necessary to formulate.

      She had everything she needed. A child she loved. Respect in her community. More than enough money to meet her needs and the capacity for earning more.

      Everything, she told herself again, she could possibly want.

      Even as the thought formed, she knew it for the lie it was. She had the same physical needs of every otherwoman. And, though the capability to assuage her needs was always at hand, both here in camp and elsewhere, she had so far chosen not to avail herself of those opportunities.

      More fool you. If you have an itch for a man, there are far better choices than a gadje lord.

      That sort of liaison had never meant anything but dishonour and heartbreak for her kind.

      She knew that. Had long ago acknowledged it. Yet tonight.

      Tonight, when she had leaned down to put the cup to the Englishman’s lips, she had instead wanted to fasten her own over them. To taste his kiss. To know, however briefly, what it would feel like to be held in his arms.

      And for the first time in her very pragmatic existence, Nadya Argentari couldn’t rationalize away the strength of that very emotional response. Or deny its reality.

      She was still trying when she fell asleep.

       Chapter Four

      Rhys opened his eyes to sunlight. The first thing he realized was that it didn’t hurt his head. The second was that it allowed him to get a much better look at his surroundings than he had been able to before.

      He knew, because the Gypsy girl had told him, that he was in her caravan. Her home on wheels.

      This morning, a section of wall in the part where he lay had been propped open to allow both light and fresh air inside. The slightly medicinal scent he’d been aware of last night had been replaced by the crispness of the English countryside in autumn.

      He drew a deep, savouring breath of it into his lungs. As he did, he identified other smells, familiar from his campaigning days. Wood smoke. Fresh meat turning on a spit somewhere.

      The sounds were the same as well, he realized. A low hum of conversation. The occasional masculine laugh.

      A movement at the periphery of his vision caused him to turn his head. The little girl he’d seen yesterday was again standing at his bedside.

      This time her lips immediately curved into a smile, which he couldn’t have resisted responding to, even if he’d been so inclined. She raised her hand and, holding it directly in front of his face, moved two of her fingers up and down.

      Puzzled, he shook his head, attempting to soften the denial with another smile. She repeated the motion, cocking her head to the side when she was through, as if waiting for his response.

      Again Rhys shook his head, relieved that the movement, which yesterday would have produced blinding pain, didn’t bother him at all this morning. ‘I don’t understand,’ he confessed.

      Once more the child made the gesture, clearly frustrated with his lack of understanding.

      ‘I’m sorry, little one.’ he began.

      Apparently, she’d had enough. She turned, disappearing from his field of vision.

      Alone again, Rhys raised his eyes to the opening at the end of the caravan. The beech leaves were molten gold in the morning sun. As they swayed in the wind, they cast dappled patterns of light and shade onto the walls of the caravan, reminding him of the countryside he’d ridden through after he’d left Buxton. And, he realized, that was the last thing he did remember.

      I fear you’ve fallen among the Rom, the woman had told him. But she’d given him no explanation of how that had occurred. Or of how he’d been injured.

      No matter how hard he tried, searching his memory for answers, he could remember almost nothing after he left the inn. All he knew was that he’d been thoroughly enjoying his first taste of freedom since he’d returned to England.

      It was possible he’d been attacked by robbers. If so, he had no memory of it. Still, being set upon by highwaymen would explain the blow to the head, so that version of events seemed logical. Whether the Gypsies had been his attackers or his rescuers, however—

      ‘Angel said you were awake. How do you feel?’

      The woman who’d given him the medicine last night was back. Today the kerchief had been replaced by two gold combs, which glittered among her midnight curls as if bejewelled.

      The shawl that had covered her shoulders had also disappeared. The cap-sleeved blouse she wore would offer little protection against the morning’s chill, but the white fabric flattered