briefly at his motives,’ the masculine voice mocked, ‘and then forgotten him.’
‘I don’t believe even you are that cynical.’
‘Cynical enough to know that no gadje means us well.’
‘He saved my daughter’s life.’
‘Angel isn’t your daughter.’
‘In every way that matters. Don’t judge me by their standards.’
The masculine laughter this time was softer. No longer derisive. ‘You’re right. You aren’t one of them. But he is. The sooner he’s gone, the better for all of us.’
‘What if I tell you he’s my guest?’ In their culture guests were treated with great courtesy, given the finest food and drink, even if that might be a hardship for the host.
‘I’d say that he’s been your guest long enough. I want him away from here.’
‘He isn’t well enough—’
‘Then let his own care for him. Get rid of him, Nadya. I mean it.’
‘Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.’ The feminine voice had now adopted the ripe sarcasm of the other. Her assumed humility dripped with it. ‘What else can I, a poor Gypsy girl, do to please his lordship?’
‘Stop it.’ Anger this time, rather than mockery.
‘I don’t tell you what you should do, Stephano. Youdo what you feel you must. I understand that. So remember, please, that I’m not yours to command.’
‘Get rid of him.’ The man’s voice was deadly quiet. Whatever raillery had been between the two had faded into animosity.’ Or had you rather I arrange that myself before I leave?’ he asked silkily.
‘If you do,’ the woman said, ‘you’ll be sorry.’
‘Is that a threat, jel’enedra?’
‘I don’t make threats. You of all people should know that.’
The silence that followed lasted long enough that Rhys had time to wonder if the quarrelling pair had moved out of earshot.
‘Get rid of him, Nadya,’ the man said.’ Or I’ll do it when I return. I don’t want that gaujo here. And I still have the authority here to see to it that what I want happens. You of all people should know that!
A slight movement of the surface on which Rhys rested awakened him. Somewhere a door creaked open—a sound he knew he’d heard before. No light came into the room, but a whiff of wood smoke drifted inside before it closed.
Rhys’s eyes strained against the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the person who’d entered. The sound of a flint being struck across the room preceded the faint glow of a candle.
He lay perfectly still, waiting for the person who’d lit it to move into his field of vision. As the light came closer, his heart rate increased slightly, driven by curiosity about the owner of the feminine voice he’d heard outside.
Her back to the bed, the woman set the candlestick down on the table where it had rested earlier. Curling black hair, held back by a kerchief, cascaded down her spine. The shawl around her shoulders was intricately patterned, its rich colours glowing faintly in the candlelight.
Finally she turned, reaching out to touch his forehead. Her hand hesitated in mid-air when she realized his eyes were open. As the long seconds ticked by, silently they regarded one another.
The mocking phrase ‘poor Gypsy girl’ had prepared Rhys for much of what he now saw. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the effect of the rest.
A few dusky curls escaped the restraining kerchief to cluster around the perfect oval of her face. Her skin, like the colours of the shawl, was almost luminous in the candle’s glow. Only the almond-shaped eyes, as black as her hair, hinted at the ethnic claim she had made during the argument he’d overheard.
Finally she swallowed, the candlelight tracing the movement down the slender column of her throat. ‘You’re awake.’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
His meaning was ambiguous, even to him, but the corners of her lips curved upward. Coal-black lashes quickly fell to hide the laughter in her eyes, which she controlled before she looked up at him again.
‘Good.’ The hand she had begun to extend completed its journey, resting cool and light against his brow.
Something peculiar happened to Rhys’s breathing. The normal functioning of his heart and lungs seemed to hesitate for the first time in the thirty-two years of his existence. After a moment, the Gypsy removed her hand, allowing both to resume their normal rhythm.
‘No fever.’ Her pronouncement held a trace of satisfaction, as if she were somehow responsible for that.
He nodded agreement, and then realized he still had no idea why he was here—or even where here was. A dozen questions formed in his brain, but she turned away from the bed before his befuddled mind could frame them.
When she came back, the slim fingers he’d remembered held the medicine cup again. As she had before, she slipped her hand under the back of his head, lifting it enough to allow him to sip the liquid it contained.
The taste was bitter, almost numbing his tongue with its astringency. At least this time that, rather than the agony in his head, was his primary sensation. Relieved, he swallowed the remainder of the potion, realizing only after the fact that she might have been giving him anything.
‘Water?’ he requested hoarsely.
‘Of course.’
Again she moved out of his line of sight, giving him a brief respite from emotions that had been running rampant since the moment she’d appeared in front of him. Too long without a woman, his friends would have jeered. Time to think about settling down, his brother would have advised. Smitten, Abigail would have proclaimed smugly, just as she had when he’d obediently fetched punch at a country dance for the prospective bride she’d chosen for him.
Perhaps all of those things were true. Or perhaps his brain was merely addled by the pain in his head or by another attack of fever. Still, whatever had happened in the last few moments had been quite beyond his experience.
Smitten. He had never been completely sure what that term meant. Other than that someone was about to become an object of ridicule to his fellows.
The strange thing was he didn’t feel ridiculous at all. What he felt was as alien as his surroundings. Territory as unexplored as any he’d encountered during the long years he’d spent in Iberia.
‘Here.’
He lifted his eyes to find the girl leaning over his bed again. Once more she slipped her hand beneath his head, raising it as she placed a horn cup against his lips. He swallowed gratefully, the coolness of the water relieving the seemingly constant dryness of his throat.
As he drank, he was aware of her closeness. A strand of midnight hair had fallen over her shoulder to rest against his pillow. It smelled of sunshine.
She lowered the rim of the cup when he’d finished all it contained.’ Enough?’
He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Disoriented, ‘he answered truthfully. ‘Where are we?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘You’re in my home. Which at the moment happens to be in the middle of Harpsden Wood.’
‘At the moment?’
‘I fear you’ve fallen among the Rom, my lord. My home is on wheels.’
Fallen among the Rom…
Which made it sound as if he’d come