standing tall and proud. “It is kind of you to remember my name. I’m sure it is your kindness as well that has allowed us to camp here again.”
He evidently remembered her brother and knew that James was not enamored of the gypsy lifestyle. “It has been too long, my friend,” she said. “I find you in good health?”
If he was surprised by the warmth of her greeting, he hid it well. He inclined his head. “As with the march of the seasons, I persevere. Come by the fire,” he urged. “My daughter will bring wine.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I am here on an urgent errand.” Accepting their hospitality meant a delay, one that might cause her to lose courage.
Luca shot her a sharp look, but turned to lead her deeper into the camp. The men behind him parted to allow her to make her way to the roaring blaze. The flickering light played across the brightly painted reds and blues of the wooden vardos that encompassed the camp in their protective semi-circle. Her gaze caught a glint of stained glass on the larger, more ornate wagons, and she turned an appraising eye on the coins worn by the women on belts around their waists or woven into their hair. The group had grown prosperous. Rumors circulated that some tribes kidnapped the children of wealthy families and ransomed them, but this one had always been honest and hard-working, often arriving in time to help with the sowing of the fields. She hoped that was still the case.
Catching the gaze of a young woman with a red kerchief across her hair and a baby on her lap, she realized that she was being appraised with as much distrust as she had briefly felt. Her face flared and she turned away from the woman, her gaze seeking out the friendlier features of Luca.
“How may we serve you, Miss Bailey?”
Panic rose up, closing her throat. She’d acted out this moment in her mind a thousand times. Now, those carefully chosen words deserted her. As the silence stretched, she heard the shuffle as someone moved on the piles of rugs on which they sat and a child’s cough as the wind shifted and the smoke from the blaze drifted across the camp. For a moment, it seemed as surreal as the dream she’d had so many times. She shook her head to clear it. There was nothing left for her at home. These people were her future.
Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ve come to demand my rightful place beside my husband.”
The noises of the camp quieted as if the occupants had taken one collective breath, then a young man laughed and called out, “There are no princes on white horses here. Look elsewhere for your mate.”
The red in her cheeks burned as if the heat of the fire had jumped to her face, but she refused to accept such easy defeat. “Four years ago, when your tribe was last here, I jumped the Springfire with one of your own.”
A murmur of speculation chased across the circle and she felt a moment’s satisfaction.
“Name this person,” demanded an aged woman who sat high on a pile of rugs. Wrinkled and gray, she looked to Juliet like the witch in the book of fairy tales her nurse had read to her as a child.
Juliet swallowed hard and searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face, someone who would remember that night. Looking for her husband. Alarm tightened her muscles as she realized he might no longer travel with the tribe. The wind freshened, making the fire dance and shadows pass so quickly across the other faces that they became distorted. In desperation, she blurted out the name. “Marko Lovel .”
“Lies,” she heard someone mutter.
On the farthest edge of the fire, nearly out of the light of its rays, a man pushed a woman from his lap, depositing her on the rug beside him in a pile of ruffled skirts and disgruntled mutterings. He rose with the lithe grace of an acrobat and stepped into the light. “It is true.”
For a moment, she doubted that it was him. The voice was deeper and
He evidently remembered her brother and knew that James was not enamored of the gypsy lifestyle. “It has been too long, my friend,” she said. “I find you in good health?”
If he was surprised by the warmth of her greeting, he hid it well. He inclined his head. “As with the march of the seasons, I persevere. Come by the fire,” he urged. “My daughter will bring wine.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I am here on an urgent errand.” Accepting their hospitality meant a delay, one that might cause her to lose courage.
Luca shot her a sharp look, but turned to lead her deeper into the camp. The men behind him parted to allow her to make her way to the roaring blaze. The flickering light played across the brightly painted reds and blues of the wooden vardos that encompassed the camp in their protective semi-circle. Her gaze caught a glint of stained glass on the larger, more ornate wagons, and she turned an appraising eye on the coins worn by the women on belts around their waists or woven into their hair. The group had grown prosperous. Rumors circulated that some tribes kidnapped the children of wealthy families and ransomed them, but this one had always been honest and hard-working, often arriving in time to help with the sowing of the fields. She hoped that was still the case.
Catching the gaze of a young woman with a red kerchief across her hair and a baby on her lap, she realized that she was being appraised with as much distrust as she had briefly felt. Her face flared and she turned away from the woman, her gaze seeking out the friendlier features of Luca.
“How may we serve you, Miss Bailey?”
Panic rose up, closing her throat. She’d acted out this moment in her mind a thousand times. Now, those carefully chosen words deserted her. As the silence stretched, she heard the shuffle as someone moved on the piles of rugs on which they sat and a child’s cough as the wind shifted and the smoke from the blaze drifted across the camp. For a moment, it seemed as surreal as the dream she’d had so many times. She shook her head to clear it. There was nothing left for her at home. These people were her future.
Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ve come to demand my rightful place beside my husband.”
The noises of the camp quieted as if the occupants had taken one collective breath, then a young man laughed and called out, “There are no princes on white horses here. Look elsewhere for your mate.”
The red in her cheeks burned as if the heat of the fire had jumped to her face, but she refused to accept such easy defeat. “Four years ago, when your tribe was last here, I jumped the Springfire with one of your own.”
A murmur of speculation chased across the circle and she felt a moment’s satisfaction.
“Name this person,” demanded an aged woman who sat high on a pile of rugs. Wrinkled and gray, she looked to Juliet like the witch in the book of fairy tales her nurse had read to her as a child.
Juliet swallowed hard and searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face, someone who would remember that night. Looking for her husband. Alarm tightened her muscles as she realized he might no longer travel with the tribe. The wind freshened, making the fire dance and shadows pass so quickly across the other faces that they became distorted. In desperation, she blurted out the name. “Marko Lovel .”
“Lies,” she heard someone mutter.
On the farthest edge of the fire, nearly out of the light of its rays, a man pushed a woman from his lap, depositing her on the rug beside him in a pile of ruffled skirts and disgruntled mutterings. He rose with the lithe grace of an acrobat and stepped into the light. “It is true.”
For a moment, she doubted that it was him. The voice was deeper and
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