Chapter Eleven
They walked in silence, not touching, but the air between them somehow filled with words and emotions and thoughts that neither could bring to light.
Margaret, for her part, could not think how to tell him what she had thought of their brief interlude with the children. She had never thought much of motherhood, as she had always been more fixated on the idea of being a wife and finding love. That was not to say that she was opposed to the idea or that she disliked children, she had just never been particularly exposed to them.
Seeing Gent’s tenderness with them, and spending a bit of time with them, knowing how little attention they received in their own life, she was moved beyond expression.
And her heart was on a very precarious slope as it was.
She had met all of the children present, though she had been repeatedly told that not all of them were there, and once she had done that, Gent reminded the children that they had business to attend to, and he really must be getting on with Miss Margaret. They had all rushed off at that, and in a few moments, the street was as empty as it had been before, with no sign that anything had disturbed it.
Gent had not said more than three words to her since then, but an echo of his look from before remained.
Silence was not something that made Margaret particularly uncomfortable, and even with Gent it seemed to feel rather nice, but with the way she felt now, she would have preferred he speak. Otherwise, she was likely to say or do something she might have cause to regret. Like throwing herself on him and kissing him with all of the inexperience and innocence she possessed.
It might not amount to very much for a man such as him, but she was feeling excessively passionate right now, and untried as she was, there was no way to know what to expect.
She bit down on her lip as they slowly walked; no doubt he was taking special care because of her ankles. He had never said a word, but his eyes were raking over her with enough frequency that she suspected he was analyzing her for injury. She walked perfectly, however, and gave him no cause for concern.
Her heart was racing within her, but that had nothing to do with this morning’s excursions.
“You were perfect with the children,” Gent suddenly said, making her jump as his arm brushed against hers gently. She hadn’t known he was so close…
She managed to swallow. “Was I?”
He made a low humming sound that did nothing for her current state. “Yes, perfect. They don’t have much exposure with fine ladies, only the whores and fishwives of the streets. And Tilda, I suppose, but she doesn’t count.”
Margaret smiled at the offhand manner he suddenly used. “Why doesn’t Tilda count?”
He gave her a grin. “Tilda could pass for a queen if she wanted. But she works in the theaters at Covent Garden, mostly. Costumer and former actress. Loud and demanding, will do just about anything for crumpets, and does not take kindly to patronization. Quite a character. You’d like her.”
She laughed merrily and looped her arm through his, taking the liberty of leaning against him a little. “I’m sure I would.”
“Are you tired?” he asked immediately. “We can rest.”
She shook her head, smiling. “No, I am not tired.” She looked up at him with a bit of a dreamy expression. “If we stop to rest, I may realize this is all a dream and I am back with Miss Ritson, listening to her horrid plans for me. I much prefer being here with you.”
His dark eyes searched hers, a peculiar light in them. “Oh, Margaret,” he murmured, his look a caress. “You are here with me. This is no dream. I should know, I’ve dreamed often enough, and nothing was ever so pleasant.”
“Of what were you dreaming, then, that this should be so pleasant?”
“You.”
She blushed furiously and averted her eyes, her throat tight. There was the kissing impulse again, and her stomach seemed to pound furiously with some agitated fire. “Pleasant, is it, to have your day disrupted by a simpering female in shocking garments who is unwilling to return home?”
Gent chuckled and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. “Pleasant to be with you, Margaret, however the situation arose.”
Margaret sighed a rather pathetic and swoony sigh that she ought to have been embarrassed about. “Gent, you really must stop saying such things. I might believe you.”
He stopped them suddenly and turned to face her. “You ought to believe me,” he told her with a fervent squeeze of her hands. “I’ve never meant anything more than the things I’ve said to you. Everything about you is different for me, Margaret, and I would never say or do anything where you were concerned that I did not mean to my core.”
Her lips parted in surprise and she stared at him rather stupidly while her sense went to pieces. “Oh,” she finally managed. “I… didn’t know. I’m not used to such things.”
He snorted softly. “That is just ridiculous.”
She swallowed and managed a shrug. “‘Tis my reality, Gent.”
“Ridiculous,” he repeated, more firmly. He suddenly frowned, staring at her without speaking. Then there came the barest hint of a nod, as if he had come to some sort of decision. “Call me ‘Rafe’,” he said in a low voice.
Margaret tilted her head up at him, bewildered by the sudden suggestion. “Rafe? Why?”
“It’s my name.” His tone was simple, but the gravity in his eyes told her this was no trifle.
Her eyes widened. “Your… your real name?” she squeaked.
He nodded once, his gaze steady.
“Why not your street name?” she asked, wishing she didn’t sound so wildly breathless.
He stepped closer, still holding her hands, though now they could easily have slid to his chest, and she was beyond tempted to indulge in that image. “Because,” he murmured, “I want to be Rafe to you.”
Oh my.
Would have been too improper to beg him for a kiss at this moment? Likely yes, so she would have to settle for a very harsh swallow that wouldn’t fool anyone.
Rafe. The name suited him perfectly, somehow encompassing the essence of him in one single syllable. She had a real name for the face and body and man that had become so important to her, more in the last few hours than she’d ever thought, considering the pedestal she had already held him on. He wasn’t a stranger anymore, a man with an identity but no name. Now he was somehow more real; warm and breathing and standing closer than propriety would have allowed.
Propriety could shove off.
“All right then,” she replied in a tone to match his, smiling softly. “Rafe it is.”
A ripple of pleasure rolled through her at the heat in his smile and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing so gently it almost tickled. To her utter embarrassment, she giggled at the sensation.
He smiled, chuckling himself, and lowering her hand, placing it back in the crook of his arm.
As he led her back down the cobblestone road, Margaret let herself exhale in a whoosh of air, shaking her head. He had to know what he was doing to her, so she was not going to pretend otherwise.
The question was… What exactly did he think of her?
“A question for you, Margaret,” Rafe said, sounding amused by something.
She cleared her throat and looked over at him. “Yes, Rafe?”
He grinned without reserve. “Can you ride?”
Margaret frowned a little. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“Because we are nearly to the mews, and we need a horse. It will be much easier if you have no qualms about it.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been riding for years.” She blushed a little. “Sidesaddle and bareback.” At his laugh, she found herself smiling more. “Why do we need a horse? Where are we going?”
Now he seemed truly amused as he looked at her, a rather mischievous light in his eyes. “We’re going to see the gypsies.”
She was utterly terrified.
He probably should have explained himself a little, but the completely aghast expression she’d worn had been the most adorable, not to mention hilarious, thing he’d seen in some time. And now that they rode towards the camp, she was stiff and somehow colder as she brushed up against his chest.
He was rather enjoying this ride. Poor Margaret could have been thinking all sorts of things. He really couldn’t go into much detail, as everything would be clear once they arrived. Besides, he doubted anything would change her feelings about seeing gypsies. The stigma against them was deeply seated, and until she saw for herself, she would not change her opinion.
But she hadn’t refused to come with him. She was riding towards it with him.
That sent a thrill of satisfaction into Rafe, and he felt himself leaning just a little closer to her as they rode.
If she noticed, she gave no indication.
If he survived this day, it would be a miracle.
They crossed the small creek just before the camp, and Rafe bit back a smirk as Margaret pressed back against him, seeing the children appearing from the trees and running around the green.
“Steady,” he murmured against her ear, delighting in the shiver that coursed through them both. “They are only excited about the horse, and a pretty girl.”
He heard a very soft snort of derision, and it pleased him. If she still had spirit, she would do very well.
The wagons of the caravan soon came into view, bright and colorful as ever, and at the sound of their approach, several heads turned with a marked air of suspicion. Music was playing, as music always seemed to be, and there was a great bustle about the camp. More than usual.
A large and imposing man stepped forward and the children dashed back to stand behind him or go to their waiting mothers. The man folded his arms and his expression would have terrified the most stoic of Englishmen.
Luckily for Rafe, he was quite used to this.
Margaret made a soft noise of fear or distress and he shushed her gently, tightening his hold around her briefly before swinging off of the horse.
He swept off his hat and nodded respectfully, taking a few steps forward and leading the horse. “Good day, Kem. I see you’ve fixed your vardo without my help.”
Kem growled in his chest the same sound Rafe had learned to accept as both a laugh and a snort. “Yes,” he rumbled, “and better than you could have done had you been here, Gent.”
Rafe grinned. “No doubt of it. Might we enter the camp, my friend?”
Kem slid his dark eyes over to Margaret, watching with a remarkably composed expression for one so utterly terrified. He grunted softly. “Your monisha?”
Rafe’s heart sputtered at the word, wishing she were his wife and his love in truth, but knowing he could not pretend any such thing. And yet…
“Something like that,” he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck.
Kem smiled, which rarely happened, and the wide grin made him look almost human. “I see we have much to discuss. Come, join us. We are in the middle of a pliashka, so you have come just in time.” He turned more completely to Margaret and bowed as any Englishman would have done. “Droboy tume Romale. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Margaret murmured so softly Rafe wondered if Kem could even hear it.
“Nais tuke,” Rafe replied with a half-smile, making at least three of the women giggle with his bad accent.
Kem gave him a scolding look, knowing full well that Rafe could have a more perfect accent than half of his tribe, if he chose.
Rafe turned to Margaret and helped her down, wrapping an arm around her shoulder protectively as they followed Kem and the others towards the encampment.
“What did he say to me?” Margaret asked him, still shaking slightly.
“Welcome,” he teased.
She nudged him a little. “I mean before that, you dolt.”
He grinned. “As I said. Welcome.”
She looked up at him in surprise, then looked away quickly. “Oh.”
He chuckled. “Did you expect something else?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted, fidgeting with her long strands of hair over one shoulder. “The language sounds rather harsh and strident, rather as if he were cursing me.”
He’d give her that, but the idea made him laugh all the same, and several pairs of eyes turned at the sound. “I can assure you that if Kem decided to curse anybody, it would sound much fouler than that. I’ve actually never seen him more pleasant, you should be flattered.”
Margaret glanced around at the laughing and dancing children, a smile forming on her lips. “I shall attempt to be so.”
He saw the way she took in the state of living in the encampment, the large tents and decorated wagons, simple toys, the fires around which pots and plates and tankards sat, the blankets and bedrolls that seemed strewn about… It was a very different sort of life than anything she would have experienced, and the lack of material possessions could be a very striking observation.
“What are you thinking, pet?” he asked her softly, handing his horse off to two older boys with a warning look and two coins.
He’d been the brunt of too many jokes where horses were concerned, and there was a little truth to the rumors about the Roma and horses. Not all of them, and not all of the rumors, but just enough that a warning was warranted.
Margaret cupped a hand around her mouth and went up on tiptoe, but still he had to stoop. “I expected them to be dirtier,” she whispered.
He laughed and pulled her shoulder in more tightly against him. “Sometimes they are. Some tribes certainly are. But Kem, he’s the rom boro…”
“The what?”
“The leader. He has some very strict opinions, cleanliness being one of them. They wouldn’t pass muster with the ladies of London…”
Margaret snorted in derision, shaking her head. “Even I cannot manage that half of the time, one can hardly expect high energy children in a nomadic family to do so.”
Rafe grinned at her. Her tone was scornful, but not of the children. She was taking everything in with the same sense of wonder she seemed to do everything else, and there was no judgment in her gaze.
Saints above, she was a fine woman.
“Such a simple, easy life,” she said softly, smiling at the game a few nearby children played. “Rather peaceful, I imagine.”
“Not so easy,” Rafe assured her with a sigh. “You know the feelings about gypsies as a whole. They are almost never well treated, and prejudices run deep. They never forget an insult, and are not inclined to be tolerant of them.”
Several people called out greetings to Rafe and he waved with a smile, ignoring some of the comments the men were making about the woman beside him, grateful they spoke in their native tongue so that Margaret would have no idea. They knew better than to be derogatory, but that did not mean they could not tease Rafe about her.
He prayed his face would not be noticeably flushed.
“What else does Kem insist upon?” Margaret asked, stepping lightly around a few puddles.
He was so charmed by her almost skipping that he nearly forgot to answer. “No thievery. Respect the land. Loyalty to family. And…”
“And always having fine drink at hand,” Kem overrode as they approached the largest and most elaborate wagon in the camp.
Rafe grinned. “Well, yes, that goes without saying.”
Kem nodded and gestured for them to enter the large vardo. “And we have been known to thieve from time to time,” Kem admitted with a smile to Margaret. “But only when we gamble too much, or if the men in question can afford to lose it.”
Margaret grinned brightly and let Kem help her into the wagon. “What have you taken from Gent, then?”
Rafe barked a laugh and followed her into the wagon. “Two times everything I have brought in offering, my best hat, and the very first horse I ever rode in on.”
Kem chuckled good-naturedly as they all situated themselves. “It is not my fault that you were naïve enough to think an unprotected horse of such caliber would remain yours when you left no incentive for it.”
Rafe rolled his eyes and looked at Margaret. “It was my first time here, and my experience with the Roma was sadly lacking. I was delighted to be admitted in at all, I didn’t think they’d steal the horse.”
“Borrow,” Kem corrected, sitting back comfortably despite his large stature. “You weren’t using it.”
“It wasn’t even mine.”
“Nothing truly is.”
“Oh, yes, I’d heard that,” Margaret chimed in, nodding with a smile. “You don’t believe a man can truly possess anything, yes? We own nothing, and accumulation of goods is not something to be desired.”
Kem looked at Rafe in surprise, but Rafe was just as shocked. Where in the world had she learned that? Most people only thought of gypsies as thieving wanderers with no respect for anything but their own ends, but this… This was fairly accurate.
“Very good, yes,” Kem told her with an approving nod. “You are quite a different sort of woman.”
Margaret blushed in a way that made Rafe want to kiss her. “Thank you.”
“Apologies,” Rafe broke in with a laugh. “Kem, this is Margaret. Margaret, Kem, the rom boro.”
“A pleasure,” Margaret said, holding out her hand.
Kem looked bewildered now and took her hand in his massive one slowly. “Likewise.” He looked at Rafe and shook his head, bemused. “What can we do for the two of you, Gent?”
Rafe sighed a little. “Well, I was due for a visit to check reports, if you have any to share, but also to assure myself that things are well here.” He slid his glance to Margaret. “And Miss Margaret has injured her ankles today, so I thought something might be done for that.”
Kem nodded slowly. “All of those things can be done, yes.” He folded his arms and smiled at Gent. “But I want to hear the story first.”
Rafe laughed, ready to tell him off, but Margaret surprised them both by launching right into their tale, leaving no detail out, and telling it with such vivacity that it all seemed rather exciting and hilarious instead of harrowing and dangerous. She spared herself no embarrassment and gave just enough context to leave listeners with no questions. Kem was enraptured, and Rafe could see a few others gathered around the vardo listening in, laughing at all of the right parts.
Margaret sat back when her story was over, grinning in delight. “So you see, Mr. Kem, I truly am a different sort of woman.”
Kem laughed. “Just Kem, Margaret, and yes, you are.” He kissed her hand playfully, then called out of the wagon and a very pretty woman of some years appeared. “Lela, this is Margaret, and she has injured her ankles. Would you see to them?”
Lela smiled at Margaret warmly. “Of course,” she replied, her accented voice lilting a little.
“Lela is my wife,” Kem explained to Margaret with a wink. “She’ll set you to rights.”
Margaret raised a brow. “Am I dismissed then?”
Rafe rolled his eyes heavenward. Some impudence was a good thing, but in this Roma culture, the men controlled all and cultivated great respect from all. If Kem were not in an accommodating mood, Margaret’s eccentricities could get them into a spot of trouble.
Thankfully, Kem seemed entertained by her. “Temporarily, I’m afraid. The pliashka must go on and you will wish to be refreshed to take part.”
“What is a… a…?” Margaret tried to ask, her delicate brow furrowing.
“Pliashka,” Rafe repeated. “It’s a betrothal celebration. They can go on for days.”
“And usually do,” Kem added with a nod. “We’ve only had one day, so we’ve hardly begun. There is music and dancing and feasting and we all make rather merry, as you gadje would say.”
“And we’re invited?” Margaret asked, smiling broadly in delight.
“You are now,” Kem told her. He gestured to Lela again. “Provided you are well enough to dance.”
Margaret grinned at him. “I would not miss it.” She allowed Rafe to help her out and seized his hand tightly. “I cannot believe we are invited to stay!” she whispered excitedly. “Do you know how to do their dances?”
He smiled down at her and nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Teach me, will you? I want to dance with them.” Her face flushed a little. “I want to dance with you.”
His throat went dry and he touched her cheek gently, marveling at her again. “I’ll teach you, pet,” he somehow managed. “And we’ll dance all night if you want.”
She bit her plump lower lip, smiling at him. “I just might.”
Lela stepped forward and took Margaret’s arm, giving Rafe a rather knowing look, and then steered Margaret away, speaking in a friendly mix of English and Romani that he hoped Margaret could translate. He didn’t like her being away from him for a moment, but Lela was the most respected woman in the kumpania, and the Gent was an ally of the rom boro. No one would trifle with her.
He heard the rough laughing sound behind him and turned with a sardonic look to face Kem.
Kem inclined his head towards Margaret’s retreating form. “Monisha?” he asked again.
Rafe sighed in defeat, knowing it was fruitless. “I certainly hope so, Kako.”
Kem chuckled and waved him back in. “Down to business, my friend, so we might get on to the drink you so obviously need.”