A Dangerous Love

Stevan’s smile faded. “Walk with me.”

He did, with a terrible sense of dread. The night had settled with a thousand stars over them. The trees sighed as they walked by. “She’s not here.”

“No, she is not.”

“Is she dead?”

Stevan paused, placing both of his hands on his shoulders. “Raiza is dead. I am sorry.”

He wasn’t a boy of twelve and he had no right to tears, but they filled his eyes. His mother was dead. Raiza was dead—and he hadn’t been there with her. She was dead— and he’d last seen her eight long years ago. “Damn it,” he cursed. “What happened?”

“What always happens, in the end, to the Romany?” Stevan asked simply.

“She was telling fortunes at a fair in Edinburgh. A lady was very displeased with her fortune, and when she came back, she did so with her nobleman. She accused Raiza of deceit and demanded the shilling back. Raiza refused. A crowd had gathered, and soon everyone was shouting at Raiza, accusing her of cheating, of begging, of stealing their coin. By the time I learned of this and had gone to her stall, the mob was stoning her. Raiza was hiding behind her table, using it like a shield, otherwise, she would have died then.”

His world went still. He saw his mother, cowering behind a flimsy wood table, the kind used to play cards.

“I ran through the crowd and they began to stone me. I grabbed Raiza—she was hurt, Emilian, and bleeding from her head. I tried to protect her with my body and we started to run away. She tripped so hard I lost hold of her. I almost caught her—instead, she fell. She hit her head. She never woke up.”

He wanted to nod, but he couldn’t move. He saw her lying on a cobbled street, her eyes wide and sightless, her head bleeding.

Stevan embraced him. “She was a good woman and she loved you greatly. She was so proud of you! It was unjust, but God gave us cunning to make up for the gadjo ways. One day, the gadjo will pay. They always pay. We always make them pay. Fools.” He spit suddenly. “I am glad you used budjo to cheat the gadjos and make yourself rich!” He spit again, for emphasis.

Emilian realized he was crying. He hadn’t cried since that long-ago night when he’d first been torn from his Romany life. He’d been locked up by the Englishman who was sworn to take him south to his gadjo father. He’d been in chains like men he’d seen on their way to the gallows—some of them Rom. He’d cried in fear. He’d cried in loneliness. Ashamed, he’d managed to stop the tears before the ugly Englishman had returned. Now, his tears came from his broken heart. The grief felt as if it would rip him apart.

He hadn’t been there to protect her, save her. He wiped his eyes. “When?”

“A month ago.”

The grief made it impossible to breathe. She was gone. Guilt began.

A month ago he had been immersed in his gadjo affairs. A month ago he had been redesigning his gadjo gazebo. A month ago, he had been fucking his gadjo mistress night and day.

Because he had chosen to stay with Edmund, when he could have left him.

He had chosen his father over his mother—and now Raiza was dead.

“They always pay,” Stevan said savagely.

He wanted the murderers to pay. He hated them all. Every single last one of them. More tears streamed. But there was no single murderer to hunt. Why hadn’t he been there to save her? The guilt sickened him, the rage inflamed him. Damn the gadjos, he thought savagely. Damn them all.

And he thought of de Warenne and his daughter.

CHAPTER THREE

HE WANDERED along the perimeter of the encampment, head down, allowing the rage to build. He preferred the anger to the grief. Raiza’s fear must have known no bounds. But the rage did not erase the guilt. His mother had been murdered by gadjos while he lived like one, and he would never forgive himself for having visited her just once in the past eighteen years.

“Emilian.”

At the sound of Jaelle’s voice, he halted, realizing how selfish his grief was. Stevan cared for his sister, but that was no substitute for her mother. Jaelle’s father was a Scot who hadn’t cared about his bastard Gypsy daughter, for he had a Scottish wife and a Scottish family. “Come here, edra,” he said, forcing a smile.

Her expression was uncertain as she approached. She touched his arm. “I am sad, too. I am sad every day. But it is done.” She shrugged. “One day, I will make the gadjos pay.”

He stiffened. “You will do no such thing. You may leave vengeance to me. It is my right.”

“It is my right, as well, even more!” She flared. “You hardly knew Raiza!”

“She was my mother. I did not ask to be taken from her.”

She softened. “I am sorry, Emilian. Of course you didn’t.” She hesitated, her amber gaze searching. “When I was small, you came to us. Do you remember? It was a happy time.”

“I remember,” he said, aware of what she wished him to recall.

But she simply stared and he knew she was thinking about how he had come for a month—and abruptly left.

“What is it that you wish to know?”

“You are as rich as a king. You have no master. Why? Why haven’t you come to us since that time? Why haven’t you come to me? Do you prefer the gadjo to the Romany people? Do you prefer the gadjo life to our own? You came when I was a small child. But you did not stay!”

She was intense, and tears shimmered in her eyes. He understood how important this was to her—he understood that he had this small woman’s loyalty and love. He took her hand. It was awkward to do so, but he did not release her palm. A few days ago, his answer would have been different, he realized. But their mother’s death hovered over them, a dark, terrible shroud. The grief remained, bursting in his heart, overshadowed by guilt. The anger threatened to explode. “I left because I received word of my father’s death,” he said truthfully. “But I didn’t join the kumpa’nia intending to stay. I had dreamed of traveling with the Rom, and I was young, so I came. It was an adventure, jel’enedra.”

He recalled the boredom that had quickly arisen after the first few days of aimless travel. In the ensuing years, he had forgotten how disappointing the journey had been, for his memory had been tainted by the news of Edmund’s death. But while on the road, he had wondered about the duties and responsibilities he’d eventually return to at Woodland. He hadn’t really appreciated the journey, not then, but perhaps it was because he had been so young. And everything was different now.

“I don’t know what I prefer now, or what I want,” he said slowly. “I have lived as an Englishman for a very long time, but we both know I am didikoi.” His heart thundered as he spoke. He was an outsider; he would always be an outsider. Yet he had always known that—he had simply ignored it. “I do know I am gladdened to have such a sister.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know what you want? Everyone knows their heart!”

He laughed roughly. “Growing up, I dreamed of the kumpa’nia. Sometimes, in my bedroom, I played our songs on the guitar. Even though I chose to become a gadjo, as my father had asked me to do, I knew my people—our people— were out there somewhere, perhaps even waiting for me. But I had duties at Woodland. I accepted those duties. I know you cannot understand this confusion. I have never understood it, either. At times, I have felt like two completely different people.”

“So you are confused now?” she asked uncertainly.

“No. Today, I knew you were near. Today, I yearned to come. Today, I am Rom. Today, this is what I want.” He gestured at the camp. “Yesterday I sat in the library at Woodland with my steward and the mayor of the nearby village, discussing local affairs.” He shook his head. It became hard to speak. “They call me Gypsy behind my back, but they wish for me to lead them anyway. There was a matter of law to be solved. They wished for my advice—no one in Derbyshire has the education I have received.” It was so ironic. “I am not truly one of them, but long ago, I made my life Woodland. The estate is mine. It is a good place. I have no desire to wed, but if I ever have a son, it will be his. Can you understand that?” In that moment, he wasn’t sure he understood it.

“How can I understand such affection for land? I do not care about land and I never will. The Romany who have homes are not true blood. You are more English than Rom.” She wiped at her tears. “But I have known that for a long time. And our mother knew it, too.” She turned away.

He seized her. “There is no place I would rather be than right here, right now. That is the truth, Jaelle.”

She searched his eyes. “But for how long? And when we leave, you won’t come with us, will you?”

He stared at her, seeing not Jaelle but Raiza, lying dead in a cobbled street, bleeding from the head, the crowd thronging her, viciously satisfied. His pulse exploded. Did he want to go back to his life at Woodland? He had so many duties there! But what about the life he had forsaken?

He owed Raiza far more than his respects, and he owed Jaelle.

The rich and melodious chords of a guitar strummed, slow and haunting. And suddenly the guitarist changed the beat, the tempo lively, joyous—celebratory. No sound could be more incongruous with his anger and despair—or with his profound confusion.

“We have a new cousin,” Jaelle said softly. “And it is time to celebrate.”

It was the Romany way. As she pulled him back toward the center of the camp, more guitars were played, as were a violin and cymbals. Laughter sounded, and he heard the men clapping in a strong rhythm to the music. His heart lurched and his body stirred.