Claiming the Forbidden Bride by Gayle Wilson

band used for transport being overturned decided him.
    As he carried Angel down the steps, Rhys realized that the Romany men were mounting a counterattack. Despite their efforts, one of the bender tents had been put to the torch. The speed with which the fire caught and the eerie glow it cast on the faces of the invaders created an additional sense of urgency.
    â€˜Come on.’ Rhys put his hand against Nadya’s back, pushing her toward the trees.
    â€˜That leads to the river.’ Taking his hand, Nadya began to draw him in the opposite direction. The same one from which the mob had approached.
    In order to do what she was suggesting, Rhys realized, they would have to skirt the clearing and then enter the woods on its far side. Given the ongoing pandemonium, that longer journey might ultimately be less hazardous than becoming trapped between the enemy and the river.
    As he trailed Nadya, who kept to the shadows beneath the overarching beech trees, his eyes surveyed the madness around them. She and the little girl whose arms were wrapped tightly around his neck were his primary concerns, but seeing the destruction of the Rom encampment, he vowed that if he could find refuge for them, he would come back and join the fight.
    They skirted another overturned cart, its load spilled out onto the close-packed earth. Ahead, a small group of the invaders had surrounded one of the men of the tribe.
    Two were holding the Gypsy upright, his arms behind his back, while a third shouted questions at him. Those were periodically punctuated by the sound of the questioner’s fists striking the helpless Rom.
    Nadya stopped so suddenly Rhys ran into her. She turned, her eyes pleading with him to do something.
    Rhys’s background and training made it impossible to refuse. He shoved the little girl into her mother’s arms and ran to where the one-sided attack was taking place.
    As he passed the nearest of the campfires, he bent and unhooked the iron kettle that hung from its tripod. He swung his makeshift weapon at the unprotected head of the first Englishman he encountered, dropping him unceremoniously.
    The rest turned, their eyes widening in shock at the interruption of their entertainment. One of them shouted, ‘Watch out, Oliver.’
    Rhys swung the kettle again, this time at the nearer of the two holding the Rom. His intended target, warned of his intent, raised his arm to ward off the blow.
    The metal pot resounded hollowly as it struck. Still hot from the fire, its heat rather than the force of the blow dispatched Rhys’s second victim, who leaped away, cursing.
    Rhys turned then to the man who’d been systematically pummelling the Gypsy. In the light of the burning tents, Rhys recognized the battered face as belonging to the Rom who’d talked to him the afternoon he’d carved the cat for Angel.
    The recognition caused a split-second’s hesitation in his forward progress, one the man beating the Rom used to his advantage. He charged, ham-sized fists lifted like a prize-fighter. Rhys managed to duck the first, but the second—a hard right aimed at his ribs—landed a glancing blow to his damaged shoulder instead.
    The resulting agony robbed him not only of breath, but of the ability to think. He sank to his knees under its force.
    Instinct alone made him struggle to his feet as the man came at him again. Bent over from the pain, Rhys still managed to drive his head into his attacker’s solar plexus, forcing him backward and into the bottom of an overturned cart.
    The man recovered more quickly than Rhys, launching himself once more into the fray. As Rhys staggered forward, he again ran into the man’s punishing fists. The left struck his jaw, rocking his head back. The right, as if in payment for his previous momentary success, came up under his ribcage.
    Deprived again of the ability to breathe, this time for a very different reason, all Rhys could do was cling to the