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Authors: Shannon Donnelly
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he had the most
peculiar reaction.
Regret.
The feeling washed over him along with the
cold air that bathed his face where her warm hands had but a moment
ago held him still. Curiously, he could not understand this...this
sense of loss. As if the part of him that had always been empty had
been briefly filled, and now lay...
But what utter rot! This Gypsy had a
bewitching trick to her, and that was all. He was not about to
become like his Aunt Julia and give into a belief in mystic
nonsense.
He blinked away his disoriented feelings,
dismissing them. These Gypsies dealt in the pretense of such
special powers, of living in the unseen. He would do well to
remember that.
The older woman stepped back, sliding her
cane from under her arm where she had tucked it. She surprised him
again with a voice that would have suited a Mayfair drawing room.
“He will stay. Bado, see to his horse. Christo, put away your tshuri . Come, daughter, we have a guest for dinner.”
St. Albans glanced behind him and locked
stares with a younger man. Dark-haired like all the Gypsies, tall
and well-muscled, the fellow had an arrogant face and an insolent
manner. There was enough resemblance to his Gypsy to make St.
Albans wonder if the fellow was a relative? He certainly hoped so,
for he really did not to deal with a jealous lover. That was such a
predictable nuisance.
Slipping his snuff box from his waistcoat
pocket, St. Albans watched the fellow sheath his knife—the tshuri the older woman had mentioned, no doubt. He allowed
his gaze to travel over the gypsy’s worn coat, down to his patched
breeches and dusty boots, and back up to the fellow’s face.
St. Albans gave him a cold smile. “Do be a
good fellow and give Cinder some oats if you have any.”
The Gypsy’s jaw tightened, and for an instant
St. Albans thought the fellow would be reckless enough to come
after him now. Oh, please do , St. Albans thought, his
dislike for the fellow growing stronger.
But then the younger man’s shoulders relaxed
and he flashed a contemptuous grin, and spoke, his accent as
unexpectedly well bred as the old woman’s. “I suppose a man who
cannot even look after his own horse has to rely on others to do
for him. Don’t worry, gaujo . Tonight you are a guest. But
tonight is only tonight.”
Turning, the young Gypsy walked away, taking
with him his companion, an older man, also dark-haired, but short,
stout, and balding, with a wicked scar down his cheek. St. Albans
watched as they tended to his own mount, and to the three, bony,
disreputable-looking horses they had led into the clearing.
Insolent pup , St. Albans thought,
irritated with the Gypsy. And then he dismissed the fellow. It
would be a different matter, of course, if the fellow were a
gentleman and offered such an insult. But he was only a Gypsy,
after all, and far below the notice of the Earl of St. Albans.
The Gypsy girl, however, was a different
matter.
Turning, he strode towards the campfire,
where the women were busy, setting up a cooking pot over the open
flame and busying themselves with a rabbit to skin—poached in a
snare, no doubt. And arguing in their own language.
He could not follow the words, but from the
tone of it, he could guess that it was not a question of how much
salt to add. No, he was quite certain they were talking about
him.
Why had the older woman decided that he could
stay?
“Why did you ask him to stay?” Glynis
muttered to her mother, speaking in Romany. “He will only make
problems.”
She cast a glance from the corner of her eyes
at St. Albans who had stretched his tall, lean frame out beside the
fire, lounging on the golden carpet as if he lay in the woods every
night.
Her mother gave a shrug that could mean
anything. “Yes, this one is good at making problems. But it is
problems that we also seek to make, daughter.”
“You are the one always urging
caution—patience.”
Anna smiled at her daughter. She had so much
to learn, yet. For a moment,
peculiar reaction.
Regret.
The feeling washed over him along with the
cold air that bathed his face where her warm hands had but a moment
ago held him still. Curiously, he could not understand this...this
sense of loss. As if the part of him that had always been empty had
been briefly filled, and now lay...
But what utter rot! This Gypsy had a
bewitching trick to her, and that was all. He was not about to
become like his Aunt Julia and give into a belief in mystic
nonsense.
He blinked away his disoriented feelings,
dismissing them. These Gypsies dealt in the pretense of such
special powers, of living in the unseen. He would do well to
remember that.
The older woman stepped back, sliding her
cane from under her arm where she had tucked it. She surprised him
again with a voice that would have suited a Mayfair drawing room.
“He will stay. Bado, see to his horse. Christo, put away your tshuri . Come, daughter, we have a guest for dinner.”
St. Albans glanced behind him and locked
stares with a younger man. Dark-haired like all the Gypsies, tall
and well-muscled, the fellow had an arrogant face and an insolent
manner. There was enough resemblance to his Gypsy to make St.
Albans wonder if the fellow was a relative? He certainly hoped so,
for he really did not to deal with a jealous lover. That was such a
predictable nuisance.
Slipping his snuff box from his waistcoat
pocket, St. Albans watched the fellow sheath his knife—the tshuri the older woman had mentioned, no doubt. He allowed
his gaze to travel over the gypsy’s worn coat, down to his patched
breeches and dusty boots, and back up to the fellow’s face.
St. Albans gave him a cold smile. “Do be a
good fellow and give Cinder some oats if you have any.”
The Gypsy’s jaw tightened, and for an instant
St. Albans thought the fellow would be reckless enough to come
after him now. Oh, please do , St. Albans thought, his
dislike for the fellow growing stronger.
But then the younger man’s shoulders relaxed
and he flashed a contemptuous grin, and spoke, his accent as
unexpectedly well bred as the old woman’s. “I suppose a man who
cannot even look after his own horse has to rely on others to do
for him. Don’t worry, gaujo . Tonight you are a guest. But
tonight is only tonight.”
Turning, the young Gypsy walked away, taking
with him his companion, an older man, also dark-haired, but short,
stout, and balding, with a wicked scar down his cheek. St. Albans
watched as they tended to his own mount, and to the three, bony,
disreputable-looking horses they had led into the clearing.
Insolent pup , St. Albans thought,
irritated with the Gypsy. And then he dismissed the fellow. It
would be a different matter, of course, if the fellow were a
gentleman and offered such an insult. But he was only a Gypsy,
after all, and far below the notice of the Earl of St. Albans.
The Gypsy girl, however, was a different
matter.
Turning, he strode towards the campfire,
where the women were busy, setting up a cooking pot over the open
flame and busying themselves with a rabbit to skin—poached in a
snare, no doubt. And arguing in their own language.
He could not follow the words, but from the
tone of it, he could guess that it was not a question of how much
salt to add. No, he was quite certain they were talking about
him.
Why had the older woman decided that he could
stay?
“Why did you ask him to stay?” Glynis
muttered to her mother, speaking in Romany. “He will only make
problems.”
She cast a glance from the corner of her eyes
at St. Albans who had stretched his tall, lean frame out beside the
fire, lounging on the golden carpet as if he lay in the woods every
night.
Her mother gave a shrug that could mean
anything. “Yes, this one is good at making problems. But it is
problems that we also seek to make, daughter.”
“You are the one always urging
caution—patience.”
Anna smiled at her daughter. She had so much
to learn, yet. For a moment,
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