a few minutes ago.
He closed his eyes, releasing the breath he’d been holding in a long, slow sigh. Something moved against his leg. He opened his eyes to see what and realized gratefully that the pain in his head was less than before.
A little girl, perhaps four or five, stood beside his bed. Her eyes, the exact colour of the hyacinths that bloomed in his sister-in-law’s garden, were surrounded by long, nearly colourless lashes. In contrast, the unbound hair that framed her face seemed almost golden in the candlelight.
When she saw that his eyes were open, the child’s mouth rounded into an O of surprise. Clearly his visitor hadn’t expected him to be awake. Which made him wonder how many times she’d stood at his bedside as he slept.
‘Lo.’ His voice was little more than a croak, which made him remember his thirst.
The Cupid’s bow lips rounded even more. Then the child whirled and disappeared from his sight.
Rhys resisted the urge to follow her movement, remembering what that curiosity might cost him. Instead, he allowed his eyelids to fall once more.
Although there had been no physical activity during this brief period of wakefulness, he was aware of an almost terrifying sense of fatigue. Maybe he’d been wrong about the fever. Maybe someone had shaved him. Or maybe.
Suddenly, trying to piece together what might have happened became too difficult. And far less important than the sleep that again claimed him.
Chapter Three
‘Wake up, chavi.’
At the childhood term of endearment her grandmother still used for her, Nadya opened her eyes to find the old woman bending over the bed. Her first thought was that something had happened to her patient.
‘Is his fever up?’
‘No, no. That one’s fine.’
‘Then why aren’t you with the gaujo? You promised you’d watch him.’
‘Angel is watching him.’
‘Angel?’ Nadya struggled to clear the cobwebs from her brain as she sat up. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. All she knew with any certainty was that it hadn’t been nearly long enough. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Stephano’s back. I thought you would want to know.’
Although he was the Rom Baro, titular head of their kumpania, her half-brother had spent most of this year away from camp. And since Nadya had no doubt what his feelings would be about the Englishman she was caring for, to have Stephano unexpectedly show up now, with her patient on the verge of recovery, seemed the height of irony.
‘Have you told him about the gaujo?’
Nadya knew that if Magda hadn’t, she soon would. The old woman shared a bond with her grandson stronger even than that between the two of them.
‘He’s just arrived. I came to let you know while the others are welcoming him home.’
‘Someone’s bound to tell him.’
‘Of course they will, chavi. It’s his right to be told what has gone on here in his absence.’
‘That should take a while,’ Nadya said bitterly.
She flung her covers off and then ran her fingers through her hair as she tried to think. Her reasons for succouring her daughter’s rescuer were valid, but Stephano harboured a deep-seated hatred of all gadje, especially those belonging to the same social class as his English father.
To Nadya, that made the fact that Stephano chose to live among them rather than with his mother’s people more incomprehensible. Of course, her half-brother had been reared as a privileged member of that world for most of his childhood. In her opinion, the bitterness he felt for the gadje had far more to do with the interruption of that idyllic existence than did his Romany blood.
‘What are you going to do?’ Magda asked as Nadya threw her shawl around her shoulders.
‘See to my patient, who has apparently been left in the charge of a four-year-old.’
Nadya had hoped to return to her own caravan before her half-brother came looking for her, but as she descended the high steps of her grandmother’s vardo, she saw Stephano coming across the compound. His long stride checked when he spotted her.
‘We need to talk,’ he called.
‘Later. I have something important to see to.’ Pretending to believe that would satisfy him, she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and continued on her path.
She had no doubt Stephano would follow, but at least this way their confrontation wouldn’t be witnessed by the entire camp. As she hurried toward her wagon, head lowered against the bite of the evening wind, she almost ran into her daughter.
Angel grabbed a handful of her skirt, tugging at it imperiously. With one finger she pointed in the direction of the caravan they shared. Then, looking back up to make sure she had her mother’s attention, the little girl closed her eyes very tightly and before opening them wide again.
Apparently the Englishman was awake. Just in time to be introduced to her arrogant half-brother, Nadya thought resignedly.
A hand on her shoulder, as demanding as her daughter’s had been on her skirts, turned her. The sight of Stephano’s furious face drove any other consideration from her mind. Clearly, it hadn’t taken as long as she’d hoped for someone to share with him all that had happened while he was away.
Stephano opened his mouth, but Angel’s headlong rush toward him postponed whatever invective he’d been prepared to spew. His dark eyes flashed a warning to Nadya that this wasn’t the end of it before he bent to pick the little girl up and toss her high into the air. When he caught her, Angel wrapped both arms around his neck, hugging her uncle with delight.
‘Someone’s glad to see me.’ He looked pointedly at Nadya over her daughter’s shoulder.
‘I’m glad to see you. Actually, it’s been so long since you’ve graced us with your presence, I’d almost forgotten what you look like.’
‘Or perhaps you were too busy with other, more pressing concerns to think about me,’ he suggested with a mocking smile.
‘We all must be busy with something, I suppose.’
After her lightly veiled reference to Stephano’s mysterious affairs, she turned to continue walking toward her caravan, knowing he would follow. And every step he took lessened the odds that the others would overhear his tirade.
Of course, their grandmother had been correct. Stephano had every right to question her actions. Or those of any member of the kumpania.
Thus far, however, none of the others had seemed to find anything strange about what she’d been doing. And until the Englishman was well enough to leave, she had wished for nothing more devoutly than to keep it that way.
‘Why in God’s name would you do this?’
That demanding voice dragged Rhys reluctantly from sleep. He opened his eyes, instinctively searching for whoever had asked that question. Although it seemed he was now able to turn his head without setting off a cataclysm of pain, he couldn’t locate the speaker.
‘Because he saved Angel’s life,’ a woman said. ‘What would you have done?’
The answering shout of laughter was harsh. Full of derision. And clearly male.
Two voices. The feminine one low, almost musical. The other, the derisive one, was different somehow. A difference not only in tone and volume.
Rhys tried to piece together the