~ Chapter 1 ~
Derbyshire England, 1823
The man emerged from the deep shadows cast by the oak tree that marked the far edge of the farmed lands and stepped into the path directly in front of Juliet.
Her loud gasp was made more conspicuous by the man’s silence. She had expected a guard, but had forgotten how skilled they could be at blending into the gloom. She spoke the secret password to the sentry, hating that her voice shook.
He seemed to still in surprise before he glided closer, little more than a suggestion of darker shadow in the faint light cast by the sliver of an upturned moon. “How would a gadji such as you know this word?”
Gadji , the Romany term for a non-gypsy woman. The gossip her maid had heard in the village was true. The gypsy tribe her father had welcomed in the years before his death had returned at last. Juliet’s pulse beat hard against her throat. Impatience lent strength to her tone. “That is none of your business. Let me pass.”
“As you will.” The man whistled through his teeth, a short sharp sound remarkably like a bird’s cry, then melted back into the darkness.
Juliet followed, gathering her skirt in the front so that she could lengthen her stride to keep pace. Her gaze was fixed on the man’s back and the occasional glint of light off his silver earring as he glanced behind at her. They were alone in the darkness, kept company only by the rustlings of small animals and the odor of decaying leaves. This land had been in her family for generations, and she knew nothing lay ahead but the ancient forest and the secrets that it hid in the arms of the gnarled oak trees. She should have been frightened, but the euphoria of anticipation was rising, blocking more sane emotions.
The speed with which the man moved warmed her muscles and she began to regret wearing her heaviest cloak. It had been chosen for its dark color more than for protection against the chill on this mild spring night. At a fork in the path the gypsy turned right toward the lake, formed years ago when beaver dammed a section of the creek. The trail narrowed, the tree limbs hanging so low that Juliet had to bend to avoid catching her upswept hair in the leaves. Each twisting turn had been well known to her as a child, but in the dark, tree roots sought to trip her and briars tugged at her skirts.
She saw a flicker of light through the trees and heard muted voices and the twang of some stringed instrument. To her right, there was the stamp and snort of horses, tethered for the night. They emerged from the trees into the bright light of the gypsy camp.
She was expected.
The whistle had surely been a signal, but there was likely a second sentry who had run ahead to warn the camp of the intruder. People turned toward her, their faces burnished to gleaming copper by the firelight. Children were quieted and held fast in their mothers’ arms. Dogs barked, but were shushed with a bone from the remnants of supper cooked on the spit over the fire.
Juliet caught the tang of burning oak and the drifting scent of roasting meat, reminding her that she’d been too nervous to partake of dinner. It was well that someone enjoyed the abundant venison to be found in the park, she thought with wry amusement. Her father had loved sport, often hunting with hounds, but her brother preferred less-vigorous pursuits and sent a servant to purchase their meat from the butcher in the village.
A man with grizzled gray hair separated himself from those gathered around the fire and stepped toward her, his bow respectful. “Miss Bailey, welcome.”
“Luca?” She had wondered what she would do if this was not the same tribe who had visited in years past, but Luca’s presence reassured her. The older man was a horse trainer, often found at their stables when his band was camped nearby. He’d trained the horse she rode still, her favorite mare Abigail.
He straightened,
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