Chapter Fourteen
Morning dawned early for Margaret, and though she had slept quite soundly, she could not say that she would be recommending the bedroll as a preferred accommodation for sleeping. It was far more comfortable than sleeping on a slab of wood might have been, but she could feel several stiff and aching parts of her that were crying for a more forgiving surface.
Still, it was the most pleasant night of her existence.
Dancing the night away with a group of gypsies, eating until she felt positively stuffed… and that had been with Rafe stealing food from her plate, claiming it was a Rom tradition. She’d checked, and it was, in fact, but it had still been something rather intimate, if amusing. Watching the betrothal ceremony, seeing how Rafe interacted with Miri and the rest, it had all been so magical and she had found herself more drawn to him than ever before.
He was so warm and kind, yet he’d been so fierce and powerful before. He danced with energy, he listened with intensity, and his smile stole the breath from her lungs and the feelings from her knees. More than any of that, he was protective of her, and so caring where she was concerned that it constantly surprised her.
Had they really only been together for one day? Less than that, even!
She looked over at the man sleeping next to her, who had not moved all night, and would have been a very polite distance away had she not curled up against him for warmth. She’d felt a slight amount of trepidation after their conversation last evening, and even more after that kiss.
Lord, what a kiss!
She’d been rather fond of that kiss after his fight, so thrilling and wild and breathless, somehow both taking from her and giving her everything. She’d been caught up against him like the heroine in a sensational novel she’d hide from her parents, and she had never felt anything like it.
And then he’d kissed her again last night, and she had felt it to her soul. He had worshipped her with his lips, and she would have cried at the tenderness if she’d been anything but overjoyed. What feelings she’d had; what sensations! Her lips still tingled in memory, and she was suddenly anxious to repeat the experience.
But Rafe had been a perfect gentleman, breaking the kiss before it became anything more, and informed her that Camlo would be sleeping just a few paces down, and if they needed any additional protection in the night, he would be more than happy to aid them.
Which was a silly, sweet thought. She needed no more protection than the man beside her, who seemed so bent on protecting and preserving her that she wondered what he thought about the rest of the time. He had seen that she had several blankets, he had put distance between them, had positioned them closer to the rom boro’s sleeping quarters, had made sure the scariest Rom she could have imagined was nearby… Truly, one would have had to be a truly dastardly villain with some evil skill and dark resources to accomplish any sort of wickedness under those circumstances.
Or simply have a willing female.
That was a bizarre thought.
Would she have been such a woman? She would never have imagined it of herself, but her feelings last night gave her pause.
Suddenly, seduction seemed like a much scarier thought, because now she had an inkling of how it could feel, and what if her strength of character failed her?
She shivered, and was not entirely sure if she wanted to move closer to Rafe or further away from him.
She settled for sitting up, wrapping the gold shawl from the night before and a blanket around her. The fire was still flickering a little, but was mostly coals. She could feel the faintest bit of heat from it, but hardly enough to signify. Still, she stared at it openly, her thoughts racing fast ahead of her.
What in the world was she doing? She had run away from home, from society, from her very life, in the company of the man who knew her better than any other person in the world. She had associated with gypsies, danced in their celebrations, accepted their hospitality. She had spent the night on the ground with the man she wanted above all others, wrapped in blankets and completely separate from him, but she had rested her head against him, and he had not pushed her away.
She had let herself be kissed senseless… twice!
Worse than that, she would let him do so again, should it occur.
Her parents would be told of her running away, which was shocking enough, but no one save she and Rafe would know of what transpired after that. The rumors would work their destructive powers, and it would make no difference that she had endured a remarkably innocent time, she would be ruined. Assuming the word ever got out. She was not so sought after that she would be missed, and Miss Ritson would never announce her disappearance. She cared about her own reputation too much.
But it could get out.
She would be ruined.
The question was… would she care so very much?
Would it be so bad to be a scandal in Society? Her cousins would still accept her, they would just not be able to do so publicly. She had never been one for the ceremony and pomp of Society, and she would not miss the forced activity of the Season.
Her parents would never dismiss her; they didn’t care about England and its statutes of propriety. They wished to live abroad as it was, and would only come back to visit Margaret, should she remain there.
She would lose the association of her friends, most likely. But she had so few of those, it might not be such a sacrifice. Rosalind would find a way to see her somehow, and she was the one who mattered most.
She could do it.
She could be ruined.
And yet…
“Don’t you think it is about time for you to tell me what you are running away from?”
Margaret turned to face Rafe, now sitting up beside her, watching her steadily. She wondered how long he had been doing so, what emotions he had seen flickering across her face. He did not look as sleep-deprived as she felt, and in fact, looked rather too appealing for a man who had just spent the night on the ground. His hair was more tousled than normal and his voice was rough from sleep, his eyes were a little bleary, but they were clear and focused. He had a thick morning’s growth on his jaw, which only made him more attractive than before.
He tilted his head at her a little, waiting for a response, smiling gently.
She swallowed and looked down at his hand, dangling from where his arm rested on his knees. She took it in her own hand, tracing his palm faintly with a finger. “Drina taught me how to read palms,” she murmured, letting the warmth from him seep into her chilled skin.
“Did she?”
Margaret nodded, looking at the lines. She traced the longest one that ran down the center of his palm. “This means you have a creative mind, and think quickly.”
Rafe shifted closer to her, and though she could not see his face, she could feel that his eyes stayed on her.
She moved her finger to the short line near his fingers. “This means you require freedom, perhaps you are a man of action rather than words.”
“I can use my words as well as anyone else,” he said, his voice rumbling between them.
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, but you are more demonstrative. Particularly with…” Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t get the words out.
“With…?” he prodded.
Her throat suddenly clogged, and she swallowed with difficulty. “Matters of the heart.”
“Ah,” he murmured, sounding amused, “that is good to know. Go on.”
Sensing he was teasing her, she ducked her face a little more, and moved to the short line around his thumb. “This says that when life is difficult, you keep going. But the breaks…” She tilted her head to count two of them. “These are traumatic experiences, something that affected your choices in life.”
She looked up at him, ready to ask him, but his suddenly vacant expression silenced her. Obviously, he did not wish to share if there were such experiences, let alone what they were, and she would not press him.
Her fingers absently moved about his hand, stroking the skin softly as if they wished to comfort him for the wounds he would not share. She forced herself to focus on the last line, the deep crease that divided his hand down the center. “This one,” she managed, finding speaking a trifle more difficult, “means you are strongly controlled by fate.” She frowned. “I don’t know if I believe that.”
“What?” he whispered. “Fate?”
She nodded, keeping her eyes on the line. “Are we not controlled by our own actions?”
“Who is to say that fate does not have a hand in our actions?” he countered. “Opportunities present themselves to us, and we react how we will. Why cannot fate have a hand in all of that?”
His fingers were suddenly at her chin, tilting her face up to look at him, and her breath caught at the intensity swirling in their dark depths.
“I believe in fate,” Rafe murmured, stroking the underside of her jaw. “I believe it was fate that brought me to you that first day all those months ago. How else could I explain being so inexplicably drawn to you? The light caught your eyes as they fell in my direction, and I couldn’t move.” His fingers moved up to touch her cheek, grazing over the skin there. “I couldn’t breathe. You could have been an angel for all I knew, with your white dress and flowers, the way you tilted your face back to feel the sun… You laughed at something your mother said, and at that moment, I knew.”
“Knew what?” Margaret asked, hardly breathing for the feelings she felt.
Rafe ran a soft hand over her hair, fingering the now loosened plaits from the night before. “I didn’t know. Still don’t. But… I know.”
Margaret shivered at his words, somehow disappointed by his answer, but warmed by it all the same. Wasn’t that how it had been for her? She didn’t know what she felt, only that she felt it. It had been as powerful as it was sudden.
Could she blame him for not knowing what this thing between them was when she did not know herself?
She smiled a little as he laced their fingers.
“Tell me what you’re running from, Margaret,” Rafe urged quietly, covering their hands with his free one.
Well, she supposed she would never be ready to confess everything, so she might as well get on with it.
She found herself nodding without thinking about it. “All right.”
Rafe listened patiently as she recounted the last few weeks. Her parents wanting her to marry, worrying it would never happen in England, Margaret’s unwillingness to consider Europe for finding her a husband, and the deal they had struck that she could remain behind to try for another Season. She told him all about Miss Ritson taking over her life, and he had shared some observations on the woman, as he’d seen her a few times. Though Margaret had never considered Miss Ritson as a pinched and hairless cat, once Rafe described her that way, she could not deny that it was a rather apt description for her.
She told him about her dietary restrictions, clothing alterations, being forced to mingle with men of Miss Ritson’s choosing, and rarely seeing her friends. She told him of all the additional unnecessary lessons she’d been forced to undertake, the modifications she’d had to make in behavior, and the criticisms of her person at almost every turn. Why, she’d even told him of visits to Aunt Ada, who seemed to regard Miss Ritson as a sort of peculiar insect, almost entirely ignoring Margaret, which was a pleasant reprieve from her normal attacks.
When Margaret reached the events of the day before in the modiste shop, and spoke of Miss Ritson’s plans for her and Sir Vincent Castleton, Rafe suddenly wrenched away from her with a strange snarl of anger and distress, his face full of revulsion. He shook his head and got to his feet, striding a short distance from her.
She felt strangely bereft without his touch, and watched him carefully as he moved, rubbing his hands over his face, pacing in agitation, crossing and uncrossing his arms as he muttered rapidly in languages that Margaret did not understand.
He turned to face her, his expression cold and furious. “You are to have nothing to do with that man, do you understand me? Not a thing!”
Margaret felt tears rising and she bit her lip. “She wants me to make a match with him.”
His mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, a muscle ticking ominously in his jaw. “No,” he said in a dark tone. He shook his head furiously. “No, no, no!” he bellowed, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Absolutely not!”
“I don’t want to!” Margaret cried, the tears making their way down her cheeks. “Don’t yell at me!”
“I’m not yelling at you, I’m just yelling!”
A voice from one of the vardos yelled something back in Romani, and Rafe responded with something rather harsh and snarling, then looked back at Margaret, his eyes wild and unhinged.
She clamped down on a hiccup, swiping at her face. “I don’t want to,” she managed.
Rafe sighed heavily and ran his hands through his hair, then set them on his hips. “You can’t marry him,” he growled.
Margaret looked up at him, her heart breaking as she did so. “Can you stop it?” she asked mournfully. “He is the only one making any offers. If I don’t marry him, my parents will have me promised to some European and I’ll never live in England again.”
He looked as if he’d been struck. “They’d take you away?”
She nodded, brushing another tear from her cheek. “My parents are not fond of England, and unless I give them a reason to stay…” She looked at him for a long moment, her words simply fading away.
“What?” he said softly, looking back at her with longing that her heart echoed.
A soft sob escaped her. “I don’t think I could bear not seeing you anymore,” she whispered, as a tear ran down her cheek.
He came to her with a soft groan, kneeling on the blankets and brushing away her tear with his thumb.
“All the people I know, every person I see, and you are the only one I thought could really see me. And after yesterday…” She sniffed and shook her head. “I don’t know what to do.”
He swallowed with difficulty, taking her hand in his. “I don’t want you to leave,” he rasped. “I love seeing you so often. I did that on purpose. I knew your usual patterns and I’d wait for you to come.” Some days I’d follow, just to keep seeing you. It sounds ridiculous, even to me, but I couldn’t…” He shook his head, then reached out a hand to cup her cheek, stroking it softly. “I couldn’t imagine not seeing your face. It killed me when you didn’t look for me anymore. I could see the change in you, but you stopped looking. And now, after all we’ve been through?” He exhaled harshly. “Now it would be impossible to go a day without you, Margaret.” He leaned forward and kissed her softly.
Margaret leaned into his caress, whimpering at his words, at his lips, and she brought her hands to his face. He kissed her slowly, reverently, tender and gentle, with none of the frantic energy nor the searing passion of the night before. This was a kiss that said so much more.
Rafe pulled away, leaving Margaret weak and somehow more wanting. “Stay with me,” he whispered, touching his forehead to hers. “Stay here and stay with me. We could do it, we could live here, and let the rest of the world go to hell. We could go anywhere, be anyone we want. Stay with me.”
Do what?
Margaret reared back, staring at him, breathless with anticipation. And shockingly enough, considering it.
Could she? Could she leave everything she knew and be with him? Where would they live? Who would they be? Did it matter as long as she was with him?
She wanted to say yes. She wanted to go with him and forget the rest of it. She wanted everything with him.
Yet something held her back, prevented her from jumping into his arms forever.
Rafe ran a hand over her hair slowly. “You can’t,” he said after a long moment, sounding sad, but understanding.
She swallowed and shook her head.
He sighed and gave her a kind smile. “Your parents?”
She nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I couldn’t bear not seeing them either. I love them, in spite of everything.”
“As you should, pet,” he murmured, smoothing away her tear. “As you should.”
“It’s not their fault I’m in this mess,” she reminded him with a sniff. “It’s my fault. I am the one who cannot manage to secure a husband.”
He gave her a look. “Did I or did I not just ask you to stay with me? What exactly did you think I meant by that?”
Margaret’s breath caught in her throat and she laid a hand on his face. “You know what I mean,” she whispered, the words hurting.
He looked at her for a long moment, and she could see that he did know. “I would if I could,” he told her in a voice so soft she almost missed it.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his softly, then wrapped her arms around him, snuggling close.
Rafe enveloped her, holding her tightly and running his hands over her. He ran his fingers slowly through her loose hair, and then sighed again. “All right, we’ll figure something out. Let’s get you out of here.”
She nodded against him, mostly because she couldn’t do anything else.
The man she loved… loved?… more than she could express had asked her to stay with him, and she had said no.
What sort of fool was she?
Rafe held her so long she wondered if he’d forgotten he wanted to get her out of the camp. But then he kissed her hair and helped her up, going to speak softly with Kem and Lela.
Lela came over to Margaret then, wrapping the shawl more securely around her, then smiling. “A gift for you, chavi,” she murmured, indicating the shawl.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” Margaret protested, trying to take it off.
Lela seized her arms. “Yes, you can.” She smiled as if that settled matters. She looked into Margaret’s eyes and seemed to see far more than Margaret wanted her to. “Ov ilo isi?” she murmured.
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know what that means.”
Lela smiled. “I know, but sometimes the meaning comes through. It means ‘is there heart here.’ To translate, it means ‘Are you well?’ or ‘is all well?’”
Margaret bit her lip hard, and shook her head once more. “No,” she whispered. “No, it isn’t.”
Lela wrapped her arms around her with a soft tutting noise, then murmured in Romani, the words somehow comforting her despite not knowing their meaning.
Eventually, Margaret pulled back and smiled. “Tell Emanaia and Drina thank you.”
Lela nodded, tapping her on the chin.
Kem and Rafe approached and Kem smiled fondly at Margaret. “So you will not stay, Margaret?”
She laughed, the sound seeming strange, given how she ached. “I didn’t know I had been invited.”
Kem inclined his head politely. “Always, Margaret. We are never here for long, but you are always welcome at our fire.”
Margaret was touched and clamped down on her lips to keep from crying again. She was never so teary! She managed to smile. “I had a lovely time, Kem.”
He smiled. “O manusha khelevan tut,” he replied, bowing this time.
Margaret raised a brow and looked at Rafe, who grinned at her. “He said ‘The people make you dance.’ It means yes, this place is nice.” He shrugged a little. “More or less. I think he’s complimenting England, actually.”
Kem glowered at him. “Something like that. Now you had better leave, Gent, before Camlo wants a rematch.”
Rafe held up his hands in surrender. “Yes, sir, you won’t hear argument from me.” He offered his arm to Margaret, which she took, waving at Kem and Lela as they headed for the edge of the camp.
They fetched Rafe’s horse from a rather sleepy looking lad, then rode back to London in silence, Margaret taking the opportunity to lean more fully against Rafe as they rode.
He did not speak, and she did not feel the need to make him.
They were going back to London. Who knew what could happen there?
She ought to have accepted his offer to remain, to run away.
Even as she thought it, she knew it was wrong. They needed to find another way.
They arrived at the mews without having said a word. Rafe helped Margaret down from the horse, kissing her brow and dusting his lips across her face.
She arched up to him, a sudden sense of foreboding surrounding her now that they were in London.
He captured her lips in a fierce kiss, tilting her head back a little and tangling his fingers within her loose hair. Margaret gripped the back of his neck, clinging as if for her very life.
“Rafe, I’m afraid,” she whispered against his lips.
He groaned and kissed her softly once more. “We will figure something out, Margaret. Trust me.”
She nodded, lowering herself back to the ground, gnawing at her lip.
Rafe smiled and ran his thumb along her lower lip slowly. “That mouth,” he murmured, shaking his head.
Margaret managed to snort, despite the tingling of her lips. “I know, it will get me into trouble one of these days.”
His eyes flashed and his smile turned devious. “Yes, and you have no idea how much.”
Oh my.
Margaret swallowed and put a hand to her chest, wondering where her breath had gone.
Rafe chuckled and pulled her along behind him as they started their path through London again.
People were not yet milling about, but some of the poorer citizens were setting up their wares, or begging for coin, and some called out to Gent by name, waving and smiling at him.
“Do you know everybody?” Margaret asked with a half-smile.
Rafe looked a bit embarrassed. “No… but I do know quite a number of people.”
She shook her head, grinning to herself.
Rafe suddenly stiffened and Margaret instinctively did the same. But then the tension was gone and Rafe pulled her into a clean and well-lit alley, a far cry from their forays into the city yesterday.
He cupped her cheek and peered into her eyes with the sort of intensity that robbed her of thought. “I need to see to something,” he murmured seriously. “Nothing dangerous, nothing out of sorts, but something important. I won’t be more than a few minutes. Can you wait here for me?”
Margaret nodded, but her heart seized up. He was leaving her? Alone and in the city? She was away from anything she knew, anything she was familiar with, and he was abandoning her?
“Margaret.”
She focused on him again, realizing that her breathing had become erratic. “Wh-what?”
“You are in no danger here,” he told her firmly. “I have a contact whose shop is right across the way. He can see us right now. He will keep an eye on you until I return.”
“Why can I not wait in there?” she asked in a small voice. “Or come with you?”
He smiled a little. “Because, pet, it is not a shop that you should enter, and he cannot vouch for his clientele, nor his employees. Trust me, you are safer here. And as for me…” He stroked her cheek gently. “This is something that I cannot have you tangled up in. Understand?”
She didn’t, not really. But if he was comfortable with this, knowing how uncomfortable she was, and with his protective instincts, she would trust him in this.
She really had no other option.
Margaret nodded slowly, feeling a resigned sigh escape her.
Rafe touched his forehead to hers, nuzzling his nose against her. “Thank you.” He kissed her softly, and she could feel him smile as he did so. Then he pulled away and winked. “I’ll jus’ be takin’ a walk, pet. You wait ‘ere, and I’ll bring you somefink nice.”
Margaret laughed and waved him on, then leaned against the wall once he’d left, closing her eyes. London smelled far worse on this side of town, but there was none of the presumption of Mayfair, no false airs, nothing but honesty and earnestness. Criminals and depravity as well, she supposed, but one could clearly see those in this area. In the finer circles, they simply hid better.
She heard some bawdy singing from the street, whistling from the windows above her, and the laughter and indignant screeches of children. It was a busy, bustling day, and the city was alive with it.
Would this be the sort of world she would have to live in if she married Rafe? She had a fortune, it was true, but he had nothing of consequence. He worked in a shabby office and had no prospects. How could they live? What would they do?
Surely, he could be trained in propriety. He was a talented mimic, and a very quick mind. He would be able to pass himself off as anything.
They could do this.
Couldn’t they?
Margaret’s arm was suddenly seized and she was hauled out of the alley, pulled towards a dark hack. She looked up at the man holding her, a stone-faced, clean-shaven man with no sympathy in his demeanor, much taller than her, and clenching her arm tightly.
“Let go of me!” she yelled, struggling and flailing.
It had no effect on him. “Stop that,” he barked, pulling her more. “I’ve told you trollops again and again, you are not to set up in these parts.”
“I am not…” she started protest.
His grip tightened and he gave her a look. “That is not my concern. Take it up with the office. Now shut up and get in the hack.”
Without waiting for her to do anything, he wrenched open the door and shoved her in, bellowing at the driver, who snapped the reins and had the hack barreling off before Margaret could say anything else.
In the dark, windowless hack, Margaret covered her face with a whimper.
How was Rafe going to save her now?