did it often enough, and he was immune to such machinations because of it. His desire for Ana waned to nothing and then quickly turned to revulsion.
Once more a female had tried to use him.
She had succeeded in snaring him with her body, but not marriage. When that hadn’t worked, she resorted to tears as they all did.
“I love you, Ronan,” Ana murmured.
He squeezed his eyes shut. A part of him, a cruel, vicious part, wanted to tell her that there was no such thing as love. Love was a tool used by women to entrap men. His father had fallen into such a trap, as had his brother-in-law.
Ronan had tried to tell his brother-in-law, but the besotted fool had actually thought Ronan’s sister loved him. What she loved was the money her husband had.
A memory from when Ronan was just a lad filled his mind. He witnessed a fight between his parents where his father vowed his love, and his mother laughed in his face. Then and there Ronan knew that love was just a word. There was no meaning, no emotion that poets wrote about or minstrels sang about.
He blew out a harsh breath and rose from the bed as he grabbed his kilt. “I think it’s time I left.”
“No marriage?” Ana asked, tears pouring heedlessly down her face.
Ronan gave a quick jerk of his head side to side and fastened his kilt. Ana cried even harder as she rushed from the wagon. He let out a deep breath and pulled on his boots. After his sword was belted into place he found his saffron shirt.
Just as he was reaching for it he heard an anguished scream, a soul-deep, fathomless cry that was drug from the depths of someone’s soul.
Ronan forgot about the shirt as he leapt from the wagon, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to battle whatever had disrupted the camp.
He looked one way and then the other for the threat, but found only Daman standing outside the wagons. He was staring past Ronan with a resigned expression on his face. Ronan turned and found the old woman, Ilinca, who was often with Ana, looking down at something in the grass.
Ronan took a step toward her and instantly came to a halt when he spotted Ana’s bright pink and blue skirts. Even in the fading light of evening there was no mistaking the dark stain upon the grass as anything but blood.
“What the hell,” Morcant said as he exited a wagon still fastening his kilt.
The night of pleasure and laughter Ronan had envisioned with his friends seemed as far away as the stars in the sky. He wanted to go to Ana, but with the dagger sticking out of her stomach – and her hand still around it – the last place he needed to be was the gypsy camp.
They would blame her suicide on him, all because he refused to take her as his wife.
“Ronan,” Stefan called urgently as he stood amid a group of gypsies.
There would be no walking away. If Ronan wanted to leave with his life, he and his friends were going to have to fight their way through the group of gypsies who stood with various weapons.
Before he could pull out his sword, Ilinca let loose a shriek and pointed her gnarled finger at him. Ronan was frozen, unable to move or even speak.
Words tumbled from Ilinca’s mouth, her wrinkled face a mask of grief and fury. He may not comprehend the words, but he knew they could be nothing good. Especially since she was somehow holding him immobile.
Morcant, however, wasn’t in such a bind. He rushed to Ilinca with his sword raised, but in a heartbeat, the old woman had him frozen in his tracks as well.
A bellow of anger rose up in Ronan, but he couldn’t let it loose. He was only able to shift his eyes. He tried desperately to silently tell Stefan and Daman to run, but he should’ve known his friends wouldn’t leave.
The ever-present rage exploded in Stefan and he let out a battle cry worthy of his clan as he leapt over the fire toward Ilinca. But once more, the old gypsy used her magic to halt him.
Her gaze shifted, and Ronan found his own on Daman. Daman glanced at the ground
Once more a female had tried to use him.
She had succeeded in snaring him with her body, but not marriage. When that hadn’t worked, she resorted to tears as they all did.
“I love you, Ronan,” Ana murmured.
He squeezed his eyes shut. A part of him, a cruel, vicious part, wanted to tell her that there was no such thing as love. Love was a tool used by women to entrap men. His father had fallen into such a trap, as had his brother-in-law.
Ronan had tried to tell his brother-in-law, but the besotted fool had actually thought Ronan’s sister loved him. What she loved was the money her husband had.
A memory from when Ronan was just a lad filled his mind. He witnessed a fight between his parents where his father vowed his love, and his mother laughed in his face. Then and there Ronan knew that love was just a word. There was no meaning, no emotion that poets wrote about or minstrels sang about.
He blew out a harsh breath and rose from the bed as he grabbed his kilt. “I think it’s time I left.”
“No marriage?” Ana asked, tears pouring heedlessly down her face.
Ronan gave a quick jerk of his head side to side and fastened his kilt. Ana cried even harder as she rushed from the wagon. He let out a deep breath and pulled on his boots. After his sword was belted into place he found his saffron shirt.
Just as he was reaching for it he heard an anguished scream, a soul-deep, fathomless cry that was drug from the depths of someone’s soul.
Ronan forgot about the shirt as he leapt from the wagon, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to battle whatever had disrupted the camp.
He looked one way and then the other for the threat, but found only Daman standing outside the wagons. He was staring past Ronan with a resigned expression on his face. Ronan turned and found the old woman, Ilinca, who was often with Ana, looking down at something in the grass.
Ronan took a step toward her and instantly came to a halt when he spotted Ana’s bright pink and blue skirts. Even in the fading light of evening there was no mistaking the dark stain upon the grass as anything but blood.
“What the hell,” Morcant said as he exited a wagon still fastening his kilt.
The night of pleasure and laughter Ronan had envisioned with his friends seemed as far away as the stars in the sky. He wanted to go to Ana, but with the dagger sticking out of her stomach – and her hand still around it – the last place he needed to be was the gypsy camp.
They would blame her suicide on him, all because he refused to take her as his wife.
“Ronan,” Stefan called urgently as he stood amid a group of gypsies.
There would be no walking away. If Ronan wanted to leave with his life, he and his friends were going to have to fight their way through the group of gypsies who stood with various weapons.
Before he could pull out his sword, Ilinca let loose a shriek and pointed her gnarled finger at him. Ronan was frozen, unable to move or even speak.
Words tumbled from Ilinca’s mouth, her wrinkled face a mask of grief and fury. He may not comprehend the words, but he knew they could be nothing good. Especially since she was somehow holding him immobile.
Morcant, however, wasn’t in such a bind. He rushed to Ilinca with his sword raised, but in a heartbeat, the old woman had him frozen in his tracks as well.
A bellow of anger rose up in Ronan, but he couldn’t let it loose. He was only able to shift his eyes. He tried desperately to silently tell Stefan and Daman to run, but he should’ve known his friends wouldn’t leave.
The ever-present rage exploded in Stefan and he let out a battle cry worthy of his clan as he leapt over the fire toward Ilinca. But once more, the old gypsy used her magic to halt him.
Her gaze shifted, and Ronan found his own on Daman. Daman glanced at the ground
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