Malory 06: The Present Read online

  He didn't stay long, though, since the food Maria was cooking wasn't ready yet, and he took it upon himself to tend to her wagon horses several times each day. But no sooner did he move off toward the horses than some unexpected visitors arrived in the camp.

  It was quite an entrance, three riders galloping in, stopping abruptly, one of the horses a large brown stallion that looked annoyed to have his brisk ride curtailed, if his tossing head, stomping feet, and, finally, rearing up on his back legs were any indication.

  His rider controlled him admirably, though, and got him to settle down after a few moments. Anastasia looked at this man who could so easily handle such a powerful horse, and looked no further, was for the first time actually mesmerized by the sight of someone.

  He was big, very big and broad of shoulder, thick of chest. His hair was blond, unpowdered. Half the English people she came across wore wigs, men and women alike, and half of those wore them powdered. But if that thick, tied-back golden mane was a wig, it was superbly made and lacking the tightly rolled curls at the temples that the English found so fashionable.

  He was amazingly handsome, at least Anastasia found him to be so, which was why she was so mesmerized, and why Maria, watching her stare at him, said, "So you have found one today after all."

  "He could be married," Anastasia said in a small, awed voice.

  "No," Maria said adamantly. "It is your time to be lucky, child. Now, go take control of your fate, before one of the other women gains his attention and you must wrest him from her. They would be all over him already, if not for that dangerous animal he sits. But do not fear his beast, he will not let it hurt you."

  Anastasia didn't doubt what Maria said, she never did. She nodded absently and moved toward the middle of the camp, where the strangers had stopped—next to the largest campfire. Ivan sat there and had come to his feet at the intrusion, which was why the blond Englishman was addressing him in his demands, which she heard as she approached.

  "You people are trespassing on my land. I will allow that you might not have been aware of this, but now that you are, you will have to leave—"

  Ivan was quick to interrupt him before his insistence became irreversible, saying, "We have an old woman who is very ill. She cannot travel just yet."

  It was an excuse used many times when they had been asked to move on. Little did Ivan know how true it was this time. But the landowner didn't look convinced. He looked about, ready to repeat his demand.

  So Anastasia stepped forward to add her plea. "It is my grandmother who is ill, Lord Englishman. She just needs a few days to rest. We will leave your property as we found it, without harm. Please, you must allow us a day or two, so she can recover her strength."

  He almost didn't even turn to glance at her, he was frowning so sternly at Ivan, but when he did, his eyes widened slightly, for the barest moment, giving her an indication that he was as surprised by what he saw as she was. His eyes were very green, very intense. She could not look away from them, recognizing the heated emotion that slowly filled them, delighted by it, for it was what she could work with, this passion he did not think to hide.

  When he continued to just stare at her, she added, "Come, meet her. Share a bottle of fine Russian vodka or French wine with us. You will see that we are a harmless people with a few unique services that we offer in our travels, some you might even be interested in."

  She knew she was being blatantly provocative, knew what service he would think she was offering, knew that was why he nodded and dismounted to follow her, none of which mattered in the greater scheme of things. She had to get him to herself so they could talk, had to make it seem that they were both fascinated with each other so it would be believed that they had instantly fallen in love with each other, and this was the easiest way.

  She led him back to her campfire. Maria had risen, was starting to walk away. Anastasia hadn't thought how she might not appear sick at all to the stranger, yet she needn't have worried. She was too used to seeing Maria daily, which was why she hadn't guessed herself how ill she was. But looking at her through a stranger's eyes, she appeared ancient, pale, feeble—tired of living. It wrenched her heart, to see her that way.

  "Gran, I have someone for you to meet."

  "Not tonight, child, I need to rest."

  Anastasia hadn't expected that, especially since she knew Maria hadn't heard what had been said by Ivan's campfire. Yet she realized quick enough that Maria was attempting to give her some needed time alone with the Englishman. She would have stopped her, though, wanted her opinion of the man, which Maria couldn't formulate if she didn't speak to him herself. He changed her mind.

  "Let her go," he said abruptly. "I can see she is not well."

  Anastasia nodded and indicated one of the plump canvas pillows on the ground for him to sit on. "I will fetch you something to drink—"

  "That won't be necessary," he cut in as he hobbled his horse a few feet away, then joined her. "Sit. I am intoxicated enough by the sight of you."

  She couldn't have asked for a better response from him. She still blushed. She simply wasn't used to this game of enticement, wasn't sure how to play it. But she knew it was her only option, the only way that she could possibly get him to marry her.

  She joined him by the fire. Close up, he was even more handsome than she had thought. Everything about him, in fact, was pleasing to the eye.

  His clothes were elegant, rather than gaudy as some lords favored. The brown coat that came to his knees was embroidered only on the flaps of the pockets and the large cuffs; the wide skirt of it flared around him as he sat. His knee breeches fit snugly and, with one knee raised to rest his arm on, showed how thickly muscled his thighs were.

  The gartered stockings were white silk, as was his shirt, though the only evidence of the shirt was in the ruffles that appeared below his wide, turned-back coat cuffs, and the frills of lace down the front of the shirt that formed his jabot. His body-conforming waistcoat was beige brocade, fastened with a long row of gold buttons, left open from hip to thigh to facilitate easy movement.

  Many men wore corsets to improve the fit of these long, slim waistcoats—it was quite fashionable to do so— yet she didn't think this one needed to. He was simply too tightly made, too physically fit—too big, but in a muscular way. She didn't think he would allow any excess flesh to get in the way of his superbly tailored look.

  He was staring at her again. She was guilty of the same, actually, couldn't seem to help herself. Yet she knew they were being avidly watched. His two companions had been descended upon by the other women. Music had begun to play. One of the women was dancing one of their more provocative dances to entertain them.

  But Anastasia was only barely aware of these things occurring in the camp, so thoroughly did the man next to her hold her attention. So she was a bit startled to finally hear his deep voice again.

  "You mentioned services. I am interested in what service you, in particular, offer, pretty one."

  She knew what he was expecting to hear, knew that he would be disappointed if she told him merely the truth instead, yet she wasn't going to lie to him any more than was absolutely necessary. Actually, she hoped she wouldn't have to lie to him at all, for that wasn't how she wanted their relationship to start. And she knew, suddenly, with the perfect insight that she was gifted with, that they would marry. She just wasn't at all sure yet how she was going to bring it about.

  The aroma of Maria's stew was very pleasant. Anastasia stirred it for a moment as she considered what to say to the Englishman. The full truth? A partial truth?

  She did not want him to think she was a sorceress with magical powers, as some Gypsies were thought to be. Magic frightened some people. Even things that seemed like magic but weren't frightened some people. She was not possessed of any kind of true magic, just a talent that seemed somewhat magical in nature because it was so accurate. The dilemma was, how to explain that to him.

  Christopher had seen Gypsies before
, though never this close. Large bands of them came to camp on the outskirts of London occasionally, to ply their numerous trades and entertain those Londoners daring enough to venture into their camps, but he had never gone himself. He had heard many stories, though, about them. Most not so nice.

  Generally they were thought to be thieves and exotic prostitutes, but were also possessed of the legitimate skills of tinkering, horse-trading, music, and dancing. They were considered a very happy, carefree people who abhorred the thought of settling down in any one place. To keep a Gypsy from wandering was to whither his soul, or so he had heard.

  This band did indeed seem harmless enough. Their camp was orderly, clean. Their music and laughter were not overly loud. They were mostly dark-skinned and very exotic looking. They were all dressed colorfully in bright skirts and kerchiefs, with pale blouses, the men wearing bright sashes. There was much flashing of cheap jewelry, in long, dangling earrings and many rings, chains, and bracelets.

  The wench who had caught his interest so thoroughly seemed different from the others, though. She had the long earrings, the many bracelets and rings. Her clothes were just as colorful, her full skirt a bright yellow and blue, her short-sleeved blouse a pale yellow. She had no kerchief tying back her hair, though, which flowed in free, curly abandon down her back and over her shoulders.

  It was her eyes, however, that made her so different. They were tilted at a slight, exotic slant, but were of a brilliant cobalt blue. Her skin, too, was much lighter in color, very fair, smooth as ivory.

  She was not very tall. Her head would probably not even reach the top of his shoulders. She was slim of build, petite, yet very nicely shaped. Ample breasts pushed against the thin cotton of her blouse. He had seen women more beautiful, but never one as alluring as this one. He had wanted her the moment he clapped eyes on her. That in itself he found utterly amazing, since it had never happened to him before.

  She hadn't answered his question yet. Watching her, enjoying doing so, he nearly forget it, until she said, "I am a healer, a seer, a diviner of dreams." Then with a grin, "You do not look sickly, Lord Englishman."

  He chuckled at her. "No, I'm hardly that. Nor do I dream often enough to remember any dream in particular for you to divine. As for seeing into my future, you'll have to excuse me, pretty one, but I'm not about to throw money away on something that cannot be proven until some future date when you are long gone from here."

  "A smart man." She smiled, clearly not offended. "But I don't see into the future."

  "No?" He raised a golden brow at her. "Then what do you see, to be a seer?"

  "I see people for what they are, and perhaps help them to see themselves in a clearer light, so that they can correct their own faults and be happier with their lot."

  He was amused by such fanciful claims. "I know myself well enough."

  "Do you?"

  She asked it with such meaning that it gave him pause. But he shook off the immediate curiosity that her insinuation aroused. He was not fooled. These people made their living by taking advantage of the ignorant and superstitious. He was neither. And besides, what he wanted from her, she had not mentioned yet.

  "I have coins to spend," he told her matter-of-factly. "Surely you must have something else to sell—that I would find of interest?"

  That his eyes moved down her body as he said it could leave little doubt of what he wanted from her. A look like that would have insulted a lady. The wench didn't take offense, though, not even a little. She actually smiled, as if she were delighted he was being so blatant in his desire. Which was why her answer confounded him.

  "I am not for sale."

  He felt poleaxed. That he couldn't have her had never occurred to him. His emotions rioted; he refused to accept a no where she was concerned.

  He had been rendered speechless, which was perhaps why, after a few moments, she thought to add, "Which does not mean you cannot have me—"

  "Excellent!'' he jumped in, only to have her hold a hand up so she could finish.

  "However, you would not like the condition, so it is not worth discussing."

  For someone whose emotions had been pretty much dead for a very long time now, Christopher didn't know quite how to handle these extreme ups and downs the Gypsy was dealing him at the moment.

  He ended up frowning and his tone was less than pleasant as he demanded, "What condition?"

  She sighed. "Why mention it, when you would never agree to it?"

  She turned away from him, started to rise, as if to leave. He grabbed her arm to detain her. He would have her. But he was suddenly very angry, that she obviously thought teasing him would up the price.

  "How much will it cost me?" he bit out.

  She blinked at his tone, yet she didn't try to placate his obvious anger, asked merely, "Why must everything have a price, Lord Englishman? You have made a mistake in thinking I am like these other women. Lying with a Gajo means nothing to them, is just another means to put food in the kettle."

  "And what makes you different?"

  "I am only half Gypsy. My father was as noble as yours, if not more so, a princeling in his own country. From him I have different ideals, one of which is that no man will touch me without benefit of marriage. Now do you understand why I say this is not worth discussing? You would not only have to agree to marry me, you would have to convince my grandmother that you are worthy of me, and I do not foresee either occurring. Now, if you will excuse me . . ."

  He was not willing to let her go. Marriage to her was absurd, of course, just as she realized it was. A princeling father indeed. Such an outrageous lie. Yet he still wanted her. There had to be another way to have her. He just needed to figure out how, and needed to keep her here and talking to do that.

  Which was why he said, "Tell me more about this 'seeing' thing you do."

  She did not mince words with him. "Why, when you doubt me?"

  He gave her an earnest smile that he hoped would put her at ease again. "So convince me."

  She bit her lip for a moment in indecision. It was a luscious-looking lip. She stirred the kettle again. She stirred things in him as well, with each of her sensuous movements. She appeared deep in thought. Then she sat back and looked into his eyes, just stared, for the longest time, and so intently. He got the strangest, fanciful notion that she really was seeing into the darkest reaches of his soul. The suspense almost had him ready to shout.

  At last she said in a mild tone, "Very well. You are not a happy man. It is not that anything has made you unhappy. Actually, there is much in your life that could make you happy, it just doesn't."

  His ennui was apparently easy to discern. His friends had remarked on it as well, so he was not surprised that she would pretend to "see" this as his problem.

  Annoyed that she called "seeing" what was so obvious that anyone could "see" it, he put her on the spot. "Perhaps you know why?"

  "Perhaps I do," she replied, and for a moment, compassion filled her eyes, making him distinctly uncomfortable. "It is because you have lost interest in what you used to be interested in, and have found nothing new to take the place. Because of this you have become—disillusioned? Bored? I'm not quite sure, just that something is seriously lacking in your life. Only recently has it begun to bother you. Perhaps it is merely that you have been alone too long, without family. Everyone benefits from the caring involved in family, yet you have been deprived of this. Perhaps it is merely that you have not found a purpose to your life yet."

  He knew it was no more than guessing on her part, and yet her guessing was so bloody accurate, it was frightening. He wanted to hear more, and yet he didn't. Actually, what he really wanted to hear was something that would leave no doubt in his mind that she was a charlatan.

  "What else do you see?"

  She shrugged carelessly. "Minor things that have nothing to do with your well-being and state of mind."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as, you could be rich, but you don't really care to pursu
e great wealth."

  He raised a brow. "Excuse me? What makes you think I'm not rich?"

  "By my standards, you are. By your standards, you are merely comfortably secure. Even your estate manager earns more than you do from what he manages for you."

  Christopher went very still. "That is a slanderous remark, wench, that you had better explain this instant. How could you possibly know that?"

  She didn't seem even a little alarmed that she had gained his full ire. "I couldn't," she replied simply. "But I could not help but hear a lot about you when I was in Havers today. Because you come here only rarely, when you do come, you are the subject on everyone's lips. Often was your manager mentioned, and how he has been gulling you ever since you first arrived. For some, the opinion is that it is no more than a lord deserves. For others, they have dealt personally with the man and despise him. Two different motives for saying the same thing usually discounts motive and just speaks the truth. And if it was not true, Lord Englishman, you would have laughed it off. Instead, your anger shows that I merely confirm your own suspicions about the man."