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Emilian smiled tightly and did not speak.
Ariella could not believe her father would make such a threat. As she stumbled to keep up with Cliff, she looked back.
As still as a statue, the vaida was staring after her. Even from the distance separating them, she felt so much strength and disdain—and an intention she did not understand. He swept her a bow, as elegant as any courtier’s, but his eyes were blazing, ruining the effect. Ariella inhaled and turned away.
What kind of man was that?
EMILIAN STARED after the gadjo and his beautiful daughter. His insides burned with dislike for de Warenne. The daughter’s defense of his disrespectful behavior echoed in his mind. His body rippled with anger and tension. He didn’t need her or any gadjo to defend him. She thought to be kind? He didn’t care that she was kind.
His loins were full. To a man like him, she was so far above him she was a princess—the kind of beautiful, perfect, blue-blooded woman that no English matron would ever present to him. But in spite of the differences of class and blood between them, she had looked at him the way all the Englishwomen who wished to use him did—as if she couldn’t wait to tear off his clothes and put her hands and mouth all over him.
He almost laughed, mirthlessly. He exchanged gadji lovers with almost the same frequency that he did his clothes. Those wives and widows used him strictly for carnal passion, and he used them for far more. There was a satisfaction to be had in sleeping with his neighbor’s wife, when his neighbor looked down on him with so much condescension and scorn. He may have been raised English, but he was still didikoi—half blood—and budjo was ingrained in his soul. A man who mowed his neighbor’s hay and sold it back to his neighbor was considered great. To take what belonged to someone else and reap a profit from it before returning it to its owner, perhaps for even more profit, was a great swindle. Every Rom was born with the need for budjo in his or her blood. Budjo was a Rom’s last laugh—and it was his revenge for the injustice every Rom had ever faced in the world.
He could have de Warenne’s daughter, if he wanted to bother. More blood filled him, hot and thick. She would be wet clay in his hands. He was well aware of his powers of persuasion. But he had little doubt that Cliff de Warenne would murder him if he ever found out.
The temptation was vast, because she was so beautiful. He knew she’d whisper about him behind his back after leaving his bed, like they all did. His paramours couldn’t wait to discuss the sexual prowess of their Gypsy lover with their friends—as if he was a stud for hire. She was unmarried, but the way she’d looked at him told him she was experienced. It would be interesting, he decided, to take that one to bed.
Something niggled at him, bothering him—a sixth sense, warning him, but of what he could not decide.
“Emilian.”
He whirled, relieved at the distraction. Then the relief vanished as he stared at his uncle’s sober face. “The woman?”
Stevan made a sound. “The woman is my wife, and she is having your cousin.”
A warmth began, unfurling within his chest. Stevan had several children, whom he had met eight years ago, but he didn’t even know precisely how many cousins he had, nor could he recall their names. And another was on the way.
Suddenly he was overwhelmed. He felt moisture gather in his eyes. The warmth felt like joy. It had been so long since he had been with family. Robert did not count; Robert despised and scorned him. Stevan, his children, Raiza, Jaelle—they were his family. And although he was didikoi, these people accepted him in spite of his tainted blood, unlike the English, who had never really accepted him at all. Even Edmund had had his doubts. In that moment, he did not feel isolated or alone. He did not feel different. He was not an outsider.
Stevan clasped his shoulder. “You are a grown man now. Djordi tells me your home is rich.”
“I have made it rich,” Emilian said truthfully. He wiped his eyes. He could not remember Stevan’s wife’s name and that was truly shameful.
Stevan smiled. “A lot of budjo, eh?”
Emilian hesitated. He had made Woodland profitable through English work, not Gypsy budjo. He did not want to tell his uncle he had labored honestly and industriously, instead of using cunning for his gain. “A lot of budjo,” he lied.
Stevan nodded, but his smile faltered.
Emilian tensed. Knives seemed to have pierced his guts. He asked slowly, “Why have you come to find me?”
Stevan hesitated, but as he did so, a young Romni ran out from the wagons, her bright red skirts swirling. She paused, barefoot, not far from them. “Emilian,” she whispered, flushing.
It took him a moment to see Raiza’s beauty in her young, striking features. He gasped, realizing he was staring at his little half sister, except she wasn’t twelve years old anymore —she was twenty.
She smiled beatifically and rushed into his arms.
He felt himself smile widely, the kind of smile he hadn’t felt in years, one that began in his heart. He held her, hard, just for a moment, relishing the rare embrace—it was entirely different from holding a lover he did not care for. When he released her, he was still smiling. “Jaelle! You are a beautiful woman now. I am in shock!”
“Did you think I’d grow up ugly?” She laughed, tossing her dark mane of hair. He now realized it was tinged with deep red tones and her eyes were golden amber.
“Never!” he exclaimed. “Are you married?” He was almost afraid of her response.
She shook her head. “There is no one here that I want.”
He wasn’t sure if that answer pleased him or not.
Stevan said gruffly, “There have been good men who have asked for her. She has refused them all.”
“I will know when I wish to marry, and I haven’t wished to yet.” She touched his face. “Look at you—a gadjo now! With so much wealth—Djordi said so. But can pounds replace the wide road and the shining stars?”
His smile faded. Although he had tried to run away many times when he had first been brought to Woodland, he had finally chosen to stay. And he hadn’t thought twice about taking over the estate upon Edmund’s death. What could he say? Just then, surrounded by true family, he was uncertain his choices had been the right ones. “I am half blood,” he said, hoping to sound light. “Woodland is a good place, but I miss the open road and the night sky.” And in that moment it was achingly true. He missed Jaelle, Raiza and his uncle. He hadn’t realized it until then.
Jaelle tugged on his hand. “Then come with us, just for a while.”
He hesitated. There was so much temptation.
Stevan seemed doubtful. “Jaelle, you have heard it before— half blood, half heart. I don’t think our way will please your brother for long.” Stevan looked at him. “He has been raised a gadjo. Our life is better—but he cannot know that.”
His uncle’s words filled him with tension. The lure of the open road was suddenly immense. But he had duties, responsibilities. He saw himself hunched over his desk, attending to papers until well into the next morning, or standing in a great hall, apart from the ladies and gentlemen present, there only to discuss a business affair. He recalled the previous evening, when he had been in bed with a neighbor’s wife, giving them both rapture. How easily he could sum up his life—it consisted of Woodland’s affairs and his sexual encounters and nothing more.
“Maybe your life is the better way,” Emilian said slowly. That did not mean he could leave, however.
Jaelle seemed ready to hop up and down. But she teased, “Your accent is so strange! You don’t sound Romany, Emilian!”
He flushed. He hadn’t spoken the tongue in eight years.
Stevan took his arm. “Do you wish to speak with your sister now?”
Emilian glanced at Jaelle, who was bubbling with enthusiasm and happiness. He did not want to disappoint her. He hoped her good nature was always with her. It crossed his mind that he wished to show her Woodland at some point in time, before the kumpa’nia went north again. There was so much he could offer her now—except she preferred the Roma way.
He could see her in his gadjo home, in a gadji’s dress, and he stiffened because that was completely wrong. He faced Stevan. “Jaelle and I have all night—and many nights to talk to one another.” He sent her a smile. “Maybe I can find you your husband, jel’enedra.”
She made a face. “Thank you, but no. I will hunt on my own—and choose on my own.”
“So independent!” he teased. “And is it a manhunt?”
She gave him a look that was far too arch; she was no naive, virginal, pampered English rose. “When he comes, I will hunt him.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and darted off.
Emilian stared after her.
“Do not worry,” Stevan said. “She is far more innocent than she appears. She is playing the woman, that is all. I sometimes think of her as being fifteen.”
“She isn’t fifteen,” he said tersely. Romany mores and ethics were entirely different from gadjo ones. It would be unusual if Jaelle was entirely innocent when it came to passion. “She should be married,” he said abruptly. He did not wish for her to be used and tossed aside like their mother.
Stevan laughed. “Spoken like a true brother—a full-blood brother!”
Emilian didn’t smile. He waited.
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.
