The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (25 page)

Yoska appeared by his side. Ian suppressed a start of surprise.

“You bid permission to enter, though they’ll not likely grant it, just yet.” It seemed Yoska’s black eyes held a secret he’d not willingly share with Ian.

Confound it all. Could all Roma read minds? He was beginning to think so. It was uncanny . . . unnerving.

He traveled the few remaining steps to the
vardo
. He could hear rustling around inside. Was that a woman weeping softly?
Vangie?

“Madam Caruthers?” Hesitant, he spoke quietly.

Several moments passed before the door finally opened, and Ailsa poked her tousled head out.

“My wife?”

“Um, yer lordship, I’m to bid you—” She slid her gaze over her shoulder, then sucked in a bracing breath before forging on.

“You needs to cool your heels, and rest your arse over yonder ‘till the princess bids you come.” The maid slanted her head at a grove of trees behind the wagon.

Rest his arse? Princess?

Chapter 28

Ian wasn’t sure which statement shocked him more.

With those brash words, Ailsa retreated inside the wagon, closing the door with a firm thud.

The camp resumed its activity, though there was an unmistakable aura of heaviness looming over it now. Ian wandered to the maple trees situated some distance behind Madam Caruthers’s
vardo
. The Roma left him to himself, though whether as an act of courtesy or ostracism was unclear.

He relaxed against a tree, alternating his gaze between the encampment and the wagon. What was happening inside? Was Vangie seriously injured? Surely Madam Caruthers would have told him if such was the case. Unless Vangie had told her Lucinda’s lies. And Madam Caruthers believed them.

God’s blood. He should have sent for a physician the moment he arrived. He straightened, intending to pound on the wagon door until he had an answer.

Patience,
wisdom whispered in his ear. He slumped against the tree. The devil take it, he’d yet to master that virtue.

Dusk settled over the clearing, and the smell of food being prepared for the evening meal permeated the temperate air. Ian’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breaking his fast early this morning. He shifted his stance away from the gypsies. Placing his shoulder against the tree, he stared at the strip of water meandering along the shallow embankment.

This morning . . . so much had transpired since then.

He’d awoken with his arms wrapped around his incredible wife. His heart filled with an unfamiliar happiness, he’d slipped from their tousled bed. Standing nude, he’d been content to stare at Vangie for several minutes.

He grinned. She had been sleeping soundly, curled on her side, her mouth parted. Every few minutes, she’d make a soft sound in her throat. Was she dreaming of the vigorous night they’d spent together? Exploring each other’s bodies, reaching untold degrees of ecstasy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before?

He’d tried to introduce her to lovemaking gradually. “Sweeting, I don’t want you to be shocked or disgusted.”

“Pish, posh, Ian. God created this glorious gift for husband and wives.” She said this while climbing to lie atop him.

“I don’t understand why people whisper about it like it’s something wicked or sinful.” Peering into his eyes, a naughty glimmer in hers, she said, “I expect you to teach me everything you know.”

She proved to be a very good pupil, completely uninhibited and eager to try whatever provocative idea he suggested. He hardened at the sensual memories, a smile hovering on his mouth.

“My lord?”

Ian swiveled to face Madam Caruthers. Engrossed in his musings, he hadn’t heard her approach. She appeared drained. In the deepening dusk, he stared at her. Was sorrow etched on her face and mirrored in her eyes?

“Vangie? Is she all right? Was she badly injured when the horse tossed her? Should we send for a physician?” He cursed inwardly. Why hadn’t he insisted someone go for a leech immediately?

“She suffered some bruised ribs. . .”

Ian released his breath in a whoosh. “So it’s nothing serious? There’s no need for alarm?”

“Lord Warrick,” Madam Caruthers laid her hand on his arm, “she lost the babe.”

Ian gawked at her, his mind gone blank, not comprehending her words. He refused to believe what he’d heard. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the buzzing in his ears.

“The babe? There was a babe?” he rasped, barely able to form the words.

“She didn’t tell me.” Agony tore him asunder. He whispered hoarsely, “Why didn’t she tell me?”

Madam Caruthers’s sympathy filled eyes shimmered with tears. “Zora didn’t know she was with child.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It happens sometimes, especially with the first.”

Ian’s head reeled. Disbelief, fear, and absolute rage toward Lucinda thrummed through him. Then complete and utter devastation for his wife.

“I want to see her.”

Madam Caruthers tilted her head and studied him for a long, disquieting moment. What was she looking for? Her lips curved into a sad, half-smile. “I thought you would.”

Slipping her hand into the crook of Ian’s elbow, she began leading him to her
vardo.

“My lord,”

“Please, call me Ian.”

“Ian, Zora . . . Vangie, is desolate. She needs time to heal, physically and emotionally.” She peered into his eyes, the evening shadows making it impossible to read her expression.

“Please, permit her that. Don’t make any decision right now, no matter what she says.”

Surprised by her vehemence, Ian nodded.

She squeezed his arm. “Promise me, Ian.”

In the darkness she couldn’t see his curt nod. “I promise, Madam Caruthers,” he answered solemnly.

“We’re
familia
now, Ian. Please, call me Simone.”

Family? She considered him family? The notion didn’t cheer him as it might have when he arrived earlier today.

“I give you my word, Simone. I’ll be patient with my wife.”

God willing.

“I’ll allow you some privacy then.”

With a graceful angling of her head, and a swirl of her colorful skirts, she wandered to a nearby wagon. A fire burned merrily before it. Ailsa was seated near the dancing flames talking animatedly to Besnik.

The gypsy raised his head to stare at Ian. Across the distance, their gazes clashed. Ian saw accusation blazing in Besnik’s eyes.

Turning, Ian climbed the narrow stairs to the wagon’s entrance. He opened the door and was taken aback at the caravan’s deceptively roomy interior. A lantern hung from an iron hook on the ceiling to the left of the door. It cast a soft glow on the still form huddled beneath a vibrant quilt. The bed looked more like a folding shelf. It was practical and efficient given the close confines of the
vardo.

Vangie’s back was to him. Was she awake?

Even though the door swung shut without a sound, Vangie knew the moment Ian stepped inside. Two steps, then he stood beside her. The stool beneath her bed scraped as he scooted it out. He bumped the bed when he sat. His legs would be at an awkward angle due to the cramped space in the wagon.

Where was
Puri Daj
? Why had she allowed him in?

“Sweeting, are you awake?”

Vangie stiffened. What was he doing here? She whispered, “Leave me alone.”

“Your grandmother told me about the baby.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so very sorry.”

Oh, how she needed a comforting touch. But not his. Never again his. She wrenched away from him.

Her voice ringing with scathing condemnation, she said, “Tell me, Lord Warrick, are you terribly disappointed I’ll not have a distended belly proclaiming to the world I carry your seed before you discard me?”

Vangie heard him suck in a great gulp of air.

“She was lying, Vangie.”

She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs demanding release.

Was she? Or was Lucinda telling the truth, and Ian the liar
?

When she didn’t respond he pressed, “Lucinda knew you were behind me. Her lies were contrived to cause you pain and grief.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re legally married. By all that is holy, I swear it.”

What did he know of holiness?

Vangie struggled to turn over, the weight of the quilt covering her adding to the burden of her grief. She pinned him with a direct look. “Tell me one thing,” she rasped, “Did you or did you not venture to London for the express purpose of causing my downfall?”

“Vangie. . .”

“Perhaps downfall isn’t accurate. Putting me in my place? Giving me my just due?
Ruining me
?”

He said nothing. Had guilt rendered him speechless? She searched his face. His handsome features were etched with sorrow, and his eyes . . . was that regret? Or . . . could it be? Were those tears awash in the silvery depths?

Her heart twisted painfully. Blast and damn. No. She’d not feel compassion for him. She was the victim. She would offer him no quarter, no mercy.

“Well, did you?”

“That was before I. . .”

Pain, razor-sharp pierced her heart and left it bleeding. “It’s a simple question, Ian. Yes or no?” 

“It’s not that simple—”

With a doggedness that surprised even her, Vangie persisted. “Yes or no?”

“Sweeting, I’d been told. . .”

Told?
Fury whipped anew. She bit out, “Yes. Or. No?”

Absolute, resolute, demanding truth’s validation, either to mend her shattered heart or annihilate it completely, Vangie would have her answer. No more a corked-brained, beguiled miss, blinded by love. Looking through the twin lenses of betrayal and deceit, she could at last see Ian clearly.

His eyes pleaded with her to understand. His voice low and filled with self-condemnation, he uttered but one syllable.

“Yes.”

Vangie rolled onto her side murmuring in a voice choked with tears, “Go away.”

Her shoulders shook with the sobs she couldn’t suppress, couldn’t hide from him. She needed to find some meager degree of release for the pain destroying her soul.

“Vangie—” He touched her head.

Flinging his hand away, she sat up. A torrent of scalding tears flowed from her eyes. She knew her face mirrored the abject misery in her heart. She swiped at them angrily, then pointed to the door.  

“Leave, you despicable
bostaris
. I’ve already divorced you,” she shouted, not caring the Romani camp could hear her every word.

Where was her dagger? She groped beneath the pillow until her fingers closed on the familiar engraved hilt.

Ian’s face paled. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“I’m not addled, just gullible.”

She revealed her dagger. “Now get out!”

The door was flung open, banging against the side of the
vardo
. Ian twisted on the stool to see who’d entered. Simone, hovered in the entrance, worry stamped across her face. He stood, shoving the stool beneath the bed once more. It scraped loudly in the tiny structure.

Scooting by him, Simone gathered Vangie in her arms. “Hush,
bad inderi
, my dear child.”

Tilting her head, indicating the gaping door, Simone silently ordered Ian to leave.

With one last glance at Vangie, he turned and took the two short steps to the open door. Bending to step through the narrow entrance, he faltered before descending the wagon’s short flight of stairs. A group of concerned Roma had gathered outside the wagon. From the reproachful looks on their faces, he guessed they’d heard every word of his painful exchange with Vangie.

He scowled and lowered his chin defensively.

Ailsa, her eyes huge, swung her gaze from Ian, to the closed door, and back to him. “Lord Warrick?”

He met her troubled eyes.

Flicking a glance to the door again, she had the audacity to blurt, “How could she divorce you?”

Ian felt a flush steal its way to his neck, then his face.

Holly hell.

Thank God the darkness concealed some degree of his humiliation. Aware of numerous ears straining to hear his every word, he chose them with care. “Ailsa, Lady Warrick is distraught. She hasn’t divorced me.”

Someone gave a contemptuous snort. Someone else, muttered, “
Dinilo gawdji
. Stupid non-Gypsy.”

Ian scanned the shadowed faces. Though not openly hostile, neither were they friendly.

Besnik stepped forward. He met Ian’s gaze square on, a challenge in his eyes. “Roma ways are different from the
gawdji
. Zora left you,
aue
?”

The gypsy’s deep voice echoed around the clearing.

Ian clenched his jaw so tight, a muscle started to throb.

Besnik shrugged, the crimson fabric accenting his muscular shoulders. “Then she has divorced you.”

“Gawd a’mighty,” Ailsa gasped, before slapping a hand across her mouth.

If the burly, entirely too handsome, Roma had landed a planter square on his jaw, Ian couldn’t have been more astounded. “Divorced? Surely, you jest. Only the Church can grant a divorce.”

“Not so with the Roma. If a
manishni
willingly leaves her
rom
, she’s divorced and can marry another.”

Fury, raw and savage pumped through Ian.

“And, dare I suppose
you
intend to be the other?” He growled, reconsidering his earlier decision not to exchange blows.

“Caution,
didkai
, my gypsy friend,” Yoska said to Ian, then edged near him, advising softly, “Besnik is our,
kallis
,
our
king. To fail to show him proper respect would be
most
unwise.”

King? Dammit to hell. Could things get any more preposterous? Ian had no choice but to heed Yoska’s thinly veiled threat.

“King? Blast and bugger me eyes,” Ailsa breathed.

Her gushing exclamation drew Ian’s attention. She stared at Besnik like he was the Prince Regent himself. Except the gypsy wasn’t obese or dissipated from years of excess. More’s the pity.

Besnik crooked a brow at her uncouth declaration, and his mouth firmed into a thin line of reproach.

Ailsa eyed him, then pertly asked, “Gawd, don’t you ever smile?”

Besnik glowered at her. “Don’t you ever control your tongue?”

“Oh, tosh. You’re so stiff. I bet you’ve got a stick up your rump.”