Chapter Thirteen
“What is that noise?”
Lela cocked her head, listening, then groaned. “A fight.”
Drina and Emanaia muttered in obvious irritation, glancing out of the wagon.
Margaret frowned. “What sort of a fight? Is something wrong?”
“Probably not,” Lela said, lifting a shoulder. “It is most likely something the men have arranged for pliashka. Fighting because they find it amusing.”
“So it should not be very bad?” Margaret asked, not sure why anybody would find fighting amusing, or want to do such a thing. She’d never even understood the draw of gentleman’s boxing that she’d heard about in London and other great cities of the world.
All three women laughed. “You don’t know the Rom very well, chavi,” Drina said, still laughing. “It will be quite brutal.”
She shivered a little. “And who is fighting?”
A loud roar of the crowd reached them and she bit her lip, half tempted to dash out of the wagon to watch, half tempted to cower.
Lela smiled tightly, giving Margaret a pitying look. “I think we all know who would be fighting if the vitsa is so invested already.”
Margaret felt the blood drain from her face, and probably the rest of her body as well. “No…”
“More than likely yes,” Emanaia simpered with a pat to her hand. “Camlo is always threatening to beat him, he probably grew tired of waiting.”
Margaret scrambled free of them and clambered forward. “I must see him,” she gasped. “I must stop this!”
Lela helped her out and took her arm as the others followed. “You will make it worse if you stop it,” Lela told her firmly. “They must settle it themselves. You may watch and cheer with the rest, but you must not interfere.”
“He could be hurt!” Margaret protested.
“But he will not be dead.”
That was not a comfort.
Margaret hurried forward as fast as her wrapped ankles would let her, and was pleased that Lela and the other women, now joined by four more, were helping her along. Rafe would never be so foolish as to take on a Rom in a fight for sport, would he? Had his meeting with Kem about whatever it was gone so poorly that they were making him fight? Could Rafe fight?
That was a bit of a stupid question, considering he had fought off her would-be attackers in the alley only this morning. But this was something entirely different. The Rom were known for their fighting, and it was never used in a complimentary way. Could he compete with that?
She would never forgive him if he died in a stupid bout for amusement, no matter how Lela assured her he would survive.
And she would have quite a bit of trouble getting out of the camp if he were dead.
“Do they do this often?” she asked as they hurried towards the gathered crowd.
“Like this?” Lela gestured to the group, then shook her head. “This is for special occasions.”
“Lovely,” Margaret muttered under her breath. She would never understand men.
They reached the edge of the group and Drina barked at several people, who moved aside for them, then pressed in behind them. Kem was a few people down from her and smiled when he saw her, looking rather like one of the little boys cheering them on. She gave him an exasperated look that he laughed at before returning to bellow at the men inside the circle.
Margaret gasped when she looked as well.
Rafe was circling the largest man she had ever seen in her entire life, and the man had more muscles and ridges to his body than seemed possible. More than that, the Rom bore a scar on his chest that spoke of other, more vicious fights from which he had obviously emerged victorious.
“Is that Camlo?” she asked Emanaia faintly, though her voice was almost lost in the din.
The older woman nodded, her earrings dancing with the movement. “Our best fighter. He was brought up fighting and does not lose.”
Margaret swallowed. “Ever?”
“Not in recent memory,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the fight, her body radiating excitement.
Margaret nearly swooned where she stood as she looked back into the circle, her body going cold.
Rafe was focused on Camlo, and didn’t even look concerned about the fact that the man was twice his size. He was shirtless and gleaming in the light, and though he was a remarkable sight usually, in this state he was a thing of pure masculine beauty. His body was hard and sculpted, with a striking scar on his left side just below his ribs, and moved with a sort of feline grace that captivated her.
Her mouth went dry as she watched him, and the day suddenly seemed much warmer.
Camlo suddenly cuffed Rafe sharply on the ear in a way that made most of them wince, and Margaret was brought back to the urgency of the fight.
She had to admit it, despite her fear and horror for the fight itself, Rafe had remarkable skill, and she did not mind at all watching the way his muscles twisted and bent with every move he made. Her breath caught so often she felt as though she were fighting half of the time. She couldn’t look away, both in appreciation and in anticipation. It would have been enough to draw anyone’s attention, but with such a personal connection, it was sheer torment.
She’d never seen anything like this. Their hands were lightning quick, and every slap or punch that landed on skin created a loud crack that made her wince.
Rafe was a good fighter, quick and efficient, and very fluid in his movements. Somehow, he seemed to know what Camlo would do as soon as he decided to do it. But Camlo was a massive, terrifying Rom, and he was no less skilled. His blows had power to them, making Rafe stagger when they landed, and what he may have comparatively lacked in the smoothness of his moves, he more than made up for in his strength and agility.
It seemed impossible to tell who would win.
Margaret wondered to herself just how long they had been fighting, and how much longer they could possibly last. Their skin glistened with perspiration, and every now and then, she caught sight of a stray bead of sweat flying off in one direction or another, and to her horror, blood was now joining it. But yet, neither of them seemed to be tiring or slowing at all. Instead, they seemed to gain more energy as the fight went on.
The energy of the crowd was continually growing, and if one of the men reached those forming the circle, they were thrust back in with encouraging shouts and pats on the back. Several bottles were passed around the group, which Lela pointedly made sure Margaret never touched, though all else but the children seemed to partake.
Margaret barely noticed any of that as she watched the fight progress.
Rafe had a cut to his lip that bled, and another near his ear, while Camlo sported one high on his left cheek. She could see other injuries to their faces and bodies, but nothing to limit their momentum.
She clamped down on her lip, biting back a worried sound as Camlo delivered a powerful blow to Rafe’s ribs that made the entire crowd hiss sympathetically, even the ones cheering Camlo on.
Rafe somehow seemed to hear her whimper and whipped his head around to see her. She met his eyes, still chewing on her lip, knowing she probably looked as terrified as she felt, if not more so.
Rafe grinned swiftly, winking at her, and then, somehow sensing Camlo barreling towards him, dodged a powerful punch and delivered one of his own to Camlo’s exposed lower back, earning a grunt of pain that had onlookers whooping in delight.
Neither took notice of the crowd as they fought, swinging and kicking and punching away at each other. It was an impressive display of agility and strength, and Margaret felt herself getting caught up in it. The speed with which they fought was incredible, and at times impossible to comprehend. Yet she could see every move as it happened, and the intensity from the fight was leaving her dizzy.
And this was supposed to be a friendly bout for sport? She shuddered a little. What would these two be like against enemies and not each other?
It was a terrifying thought.
A mixture of Romani and English shouts of encouragement and energy rang through the air as the fight continued, as Camlo railed against Rafe’s ribs, as Rafe wrapped an arm around Camlo’s head and repeatedly drove his knee into Camlo’s stomach…
Margaret could not take her eyes off of Rafe, her heart in her throat. He was fiercer than she would have ever thought, and yet she had always sensed a vibrant energy to him, an edge of danger that had captivated her from the beginning.
Camlo suddenly wrenched Rafe’s arm behind him, then drove him into the ground. Rafe struggled under the weight, thrashing and grunting against it. The crowd roared, urging him on, and Margaret found herself doing the same, the women surrounding her yelling louder than most of the men.
Suddenly, Rafe hooked his leg around Camlo’s and sent him crashing to the ground. Rafe sprang to his feet, wiping the blood, sweat, and dirt from his face, and circled slowly, waiting for Camlo to attack again.
They circled each other slowly, and the volume of the crowd lessened with the sudden tension.
Both men breathed heavily, muscular chests heaving with every pant. Their bodies were fatigued, but their eyes still had an intense fire that held no trace of surrender or weakness.
Camlo offered a slow, devious smirk, then charged like a raging bull. Rafe swiped him aside, shoving his elbow into the top of his opponent’s back as he passed. Camlo turned with a savage growl and came at him again. Rafe ducked and wrapped his arms about Camlo’s hips, tossing him over his back and sending him crashing to the ground with a deafening thud.
The crowd held its breath for a moment, then broke into thunderous applause as Camlo coughed a surprisingly weak laugh and closed his eyes. Rafe bent over, hands on his knees, finally showing his fatigue even as he smiled, murmuring something to Camlo, who responded with something that made Rafe laugh.
Kem moved between them and announced something in Romani to the effect of an official declaration of Rafe as the winner, which sent the crowd cheering to somehow unreached levels.
Rafe reached down to help Camlo up, and the two clapped each other on the back, grinning despite their injuries. Both were swarmed by people, and took their attentions with good graces, as well as the bottles that were passed to them.
Margaret felt herself nudged and turned to look at Drina, grinning beside her. “Aren’t you going to go congratulate your gentleman?” Drina asked with a throaty laugh.
Margaret felt her brows rise, and turned to look at Rafe again.
Gentleman? He certainly was no gentleman, if her experience had taught her anything. No gentleman would have teased her as he had done. No gentleman would have lifted her skirts to inspect her ankles. No gentleman would have fought with such energy for sport. And no gentleman would look at her as directly as he did, nor with such fire.
Perhaps that was it, then. She’d been looking for a gentleman when what she really wanted was… him.
As if he felt her gaze, Rafe looked up and stared at her. He fought a smile, still almost vibrating with the energy and exhilaration of his fight, which she had felt herself as it had finished. Her breath had raced, her cheers had matched the others, and her heart had pounded furiously in her chest.
Now it was doing so again, and she felt the rush of every exhale pass her lips. Breathless and unsteady, and delirious with pride, she smiled at him, letting it spread until she was positively beaming.
Rafe suddenly moved towards her, stealing a bottle from a nearby Rom and taking a deep swig, his corded throat moving on a swallow. Then the bottle was thrust back, and he was to her.
Without any hint of hesitation, he hauled her up against him and kissed her with the same energy and fervor with which he had fought, with all of the intensity and focus she had ever felt from him.
Gasping against his mouth, thrilling with the contact, Margaret latched her fingers into his damp hair and opened to him, clinging and wild and soaring, her feet leaving the ground as he pulled her closer still.
The crowd erupted into delighted cheers, but nothing could drown out the joyous sounds of her own heart.
The pliashka was quite the event amongst the Rom usually, and this one was no exception.
Miri was glowing and beautiful in her traditional raiment, and her smile, though enchanting for the rest of them, was only for Danior, who would look nowhere else. They circled each other near the fire, torches pitched in the ground around them to add more light, and the stark shadows of the evening and firelight only added to the magic of the night.
Rafe, now recovered from his fight, and its victory, and properly dressed, was slightly less recovered from his victory celebration with Margaret. Standing next to her, murmuring an explanation of what was happening, having her so close to him… It was all he could do to keep from carrying her off like an actual Rom was known to do with his woman.
Watching the betrothal ceremony was far more moving than it should have been. Danior draped the necklace of coins about Miri’s neck, signifying that she was now betrothed. Rafe relayed this to Margaret, who sighed happily and leaned against him.
Rafe looked heavenward in a silent plea for strength.
After having tasted the sweetness of her lips once, he could not imagine never doing so again. Her response to him had been eager and willing, as if she had been waiting for it, which made him wonder what the hell he’d been doing all this time. It unmanned him how much he needed her now, somehow more than he had before.
It would have been terrifying if he weren’t so damned thrilled about it.
He ought not to have kissed her, but he was not about to regret it.
True to tradition, the gathered Rom shouted in jubilation of the betrothal.
“What did they say?” Margaret asked, turning to him, the light flickering off of her cheeks.
He smiled warmly. “Sastismos,” he told her, his voice more of a growl.
She cocked her head with a smile. “And that means?”
“Good health.”
She nodded and turned back, adding her voice to the rest.
Rafe shook his head, amused and enchanted. Mere hours with these people, and Margaret was actively participating, joining with them in every way she could. She had lost any fear and trepidation she’d had at the beginning, and seemed somehow to belong here with these warm, free, caring people.
Yet she was the very picture of an English miss.
What a contradiction his little Margaret was.
His heart jerked as he realized he’d identified her as his. She was nothing of the kind, he knew that well, but he was as possessive and protective of her as if they were bound together.
A surge of longing rose within him and he was quick to shove it aside. Now was not the time, and the future stretched before them with too many unknowns.
The group started to dance as the music picked up, and Margaret watched in fascination, her eyes tracking every movement and sway. It was very unlike the dancing in an English ballroom, and far less refined. But there was something very alive about the dance here, something almost elemental that was quite moving. He’d always been impressed with the emotion within it, and he was a man who did not particularly enjoy dancing.
Margaret whirled to face him, her eyes alight. “Teach me!” she demanded. “Teach me to dance!”
He looked down at her ankles, now free of the wraps and back in her boots. “Can you?”
She thumped him on the arm firmly. “Rafe, I will dance a quadrille on your head if you don’t teach me to dance with them now!”
He threw his head back and laughed, delighted beyond words by her threat. “Steady on, pet,” he told her, still laughing, reaching out to rub her arms. “I’ll teach you.”
Rafe urged her backward, turning her back to face the dance, but keeping her close to him, almost touching. “You see how they move?” he murmured near her ear. “There is no need for space, only for feeling.” He began to sway a little behind her, feeling the beat and energy of the vibrant music. “Do you feel that?”
Margaret nodded without speaking, starting to move herself, mimicking the motions of the others in a much more reserved way.
“Let go, Margaret,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and showing her the movement. “Let go.”
She surprised him by dropping her head back against him and covering his hand with her own.
His throat clogged and his hand clenched against her as they moved, still not flush, but feeling somehow far closer. They swayed together silently, a pulse thrumming through them both as the movements grew and changed.
“Circle me,” Rafe finally managed, watching as the others did so. He moved his hand and gently pressed her around, and she followed.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered. “Always eyes on me.”
She did so, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. “Why?” she asked. “Is it bad luck otherwise?”
“Yes,” he lied without hesitation, clapping his hands in time with the music. It wasn’t entirely a lie. It would be bad luck for him if she didn’t look at him. He needed her eyes on him, he needed to feel that connection.
She dutifully kept her gaze fixed on his, a small smile on her full lips. “Now what?” she asked as she completed her second circle.
“My turn,” he said, moving himself. She smiled more fully at him, watching his progress. “Raise your arms.” He helped her to lift them to the sky, taking a selfish moment to run his hands down her arms as he circled her once, twice, three times. He felt her shiver, even as she swayed, and the tension between them hummed to life again.
“Leave them there,” he whispered as she started to lower them. “Now stomp your feet. In time with the music.”
He showed her how, and she repeated it, something jingling musically as she did so.
Margaret’s eyes widened and she looked down at her feet, then laughed. “I’d forgotten about that!” She lifted her foot and placed it into his hand, boldly revealing her boots and ankles, around one of which was tied a small circle of coins.
Rafe grinned and touched the chain, and the hint of leg exposed above it. “Well,” he mused, dipping his finger under the chain, “it is a pity your ankles are not strong enough to take the boots off.”
“Yes,” Margaret breathed, her eyes flicking between him and his hand.
“But…” He hooked his finger around the chain and made it jingle again. “This means you and I must do something just as shocking.”
Margaret stilled. “What is that?”
Her stillness undid him and he grinned at her. “Dance to something a little more lively.” He turned to whistle and the crowd whooped as the music turned jaunty.
Rafe took Margaret’s hand and pulled her along to dance with the rest, clapping, stomping, and swaying, moving with the rest without pattern or order. They stayed close, and met eyes often, laughing and touching and twirling, dancing with the tribe long into the night.
Eventually, the dancing faded, and the others wandered sleepily, or drunkenly, off to their vardos, tents, or bedrolls, as the case may have been. Some had rolled them near the fire, others had picked a space beneath the stars.
Rafe had done both.
He wished there would be a more comfortable place for Margaret, a spot in a vardo, at least, but there was not. And if he were being perfectly honest, he wanted to be close to her, and he wanted them both beneath the stars.
Kem gave him a hard look as he and Lela entered their tent, and Rafe nodded with obedience and respect. It seemed that Margaret had earned herself a tribe of her own, and any slight against her would be avenged.
As if Rafe would do any such thing.
Rogue, on the other hand, couldn’t be trusted in any circumstances.
But Rafe was the Gent. He would never behave as anything less.
Margaret sat down on the blankets and bedrolls that had been prepared for them, leaning back on her hands with an exhausted, but exuberant smile. “I don’t think I have ever danced so much in my entire life,” she told him as he approached. “I will be so sore tomorrow.”
He shook his head as he sat down next to her. “You ought to have told me,” he scolded. “Your ankles…”
She was shaking her head vigorously before he finished. “Absolutely not.” She shook her head once more for effect. “You would have made me stop, and I didn’t want to.” She laughed breathlessly and let her head fall back with a sigh. “I have never known a night like this, Rafe. It was magical.”
She transfixed him, entirely and completely, and coherent thought seemed far too difficult to manage. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed it?” she laughed, lifting her head to look at him. “I don’t know how I will go back to life as it was before.”
Rafe was suffering from the same affliction, but hardly for the same reason. “The Rom have a special view of life,” he said carefully, looking up at the stars. “Of creation. Of being. Of everything.” He shrugged a little. “It is not for everyone.”
“I like it,” Margaret replied bluntly. She was watching him, he could tell, but he forced himself to not look at her. “Are you really a poshram? Are you part Roma?”
He chuckled now and glanced over at her. “Promise not to tell?”
She nodded at once. “Of course.”
He smiled. “No. Half Italian.” He snorted and laid back on the bedroll, resting one hand on his chest. “I almost wish I was, but I think the Italian in me suffices, don’t you?”
“Certainly does.” She tilted to lean on one arm, looking at him closely. “That fight with you and Camlo…”
He made a face, hissing a little. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Not very gentlemanly of me.”
“I’m not sorry.”
He cocked his head a little, his body stilling. “You’re not?”
She slowly shook her head. “I was worried,” she said softly. “I was actually rather scared.”
Rafe moved to comfort her, but she wasn’t finished, so he waited, hating that he’d made her feel that way just for entertainment. If he’d refused, he would have received a ribbing from Camlo and the others, but nothing more would have happened. Wasn’t Margaret’s state more important than that?
“But then, when I saw you fight…” She trailed off, biting her lip once more. “I was so proud.”
The breath in his lungs vanished.
“You were so powerful, Rafe,” she told him, her eyes unfocused and not seeing him at all. “I forgot all about being afraid, and just wanted to watch, to see what you would do next, and… I just knew that you would win. I don’t know how, Camlo was so strong and so much bigger than you, and he should have won… but I knew you would.”
Rafe stared at her in awe, absently counting the heartbeats that pounded against his ribs.
Margaret’s eyes suddenly focused on him again and she smiled a bit shyly. “What a thing to admit.” She shook her head, laughing a little and looking away. “I cannot believe I told you that. As if I could truly know anything about you.” She frowned a little and looked up at the stars. “And yet I do. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Yes,” Rafe breathed, unable to take his eyes off of her. “It makes all the sense in the world.”
She smiled up at the sky. “Of course you would say that. You, who stares at me for ten seconds at a time and hardly says a word.”
He laughed a little, feeling returning to his body. “You stared back,” he reminded her.
A soft giggle escaped her. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
The sudden desire to know more about her rose within him, and he couldn’t resist the impulse. He knew her by instinct, but not by fact. He knew her temperament, but not her story. He knew who she was, but not why.
And he wanted to know it all. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me anything.”
Margaret looked over at him, smiling curiously. “Anything?”
He nodded. “Anything at all.”
Her brow furrowed a little as she thought, apparently at a loss. “I never take milk in my tea. Only sugar,” she began, sounding hesitant and still confused.
He smiled in encouragement and closed his eyes, listening to her voice and the sounds of the night.
“I wanted to play the harp, but I could never convince my parents to purchase one.” She laughed a little, and he felt her settle in a little more beside him.
“I love to waltz,” she said, her voice filled with suddenly longing. “Before I had permission, I learned on my own and waltzed in my bedroom at night. I could never marry a man who could not waltz.” Her voice was very firm by the end, and he could almost see the stubborn set of her jaw in his mind’s eye.
“Keep going,” he encouraged. “Tell me more.”
“When I was a child, I used to sneak out of my bedroom and creep into the library to read by the fire. The only person who knows that is the maid who would put out the fires every night, and she made sure to do the library last so I could read as long as possible.”
He opened his eyes, looking up at her. “And then?”
She looked down at him, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. “Then what?”
“Surely it doesn’t end there. Did she force you to go right to bed? Did she tell you further stories of her own?”
She smiled and he felt the warmth of it course through him. “She took me down to the kitchens for warm milk and honey.”
He laughed and closed his eyes again. “One more. Tell me one more.”
To his surprise, he felt her fingers suddenly touching his hair, running through it in long, even strokes.
“I love the rain,” Margaret whispered, her fingers stroking along his scalp.
His breath caught at her words, and he opened his eyes to watch her, waiting, wondering if it was possible…
“Sometimes I go out into it without bonnet or hat and stand there, letting the rain fall upon me.” Margaret’s voice dipped lower, softer, lost in memory. “I tilt my head back and feel the drops as they hit my cheek, and I stay there as long as possible, until my mother comes and forces me to go in, always asking if I mean to catch cold.” She smiled down at him. “I’ve never once caught cold from standing out in the rain, but I always thought it would be a lovely reason to do so.”
Stunned, he propped himself up on one elbow, staring at her now. “I knew it,” he breathed.
“Knew what?” she replied in the same tone.
He slowly shook his head, reaching out to touch her cheek. “I knew you would love the rain. I imagined it. I could see you standing there, your faced tipped back as the drops fell upon your cheeks…” His fingers traced her features, memorizing every facet of them. “Your nose… your lips… those perfect, tempting, sweet lips…” He held his breath as his fingers grazed her lips, and he couldn’t look away from them.
Margaret inhaled shakily, her breath tickling his finger as it danced past. “Rather… rather too full, I’ve been told.”
Again, he shook his head. “No…” he told her. “No, they are perfect. Absolute perfection…”
And then he was kissing her, slowly, sweetly, with tenderness and longing, drugging his senses and drowning his thoughts. She sighed into him, and her delicate hands slid around his neck, searing his skin and leaving a permanent mark on his heart.
She was his.
More than that, he was hers.