Page 85

Where was her dagger? Her heart splintering impossibly further, she groped beneath the pillow until her fingers closed on the familiar engraved hilt.

“Divorced” Ian’s face paled, and he lifted a hand in supplication “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“I’m not addled, just gullible.” She revealed her dagger, brandishing it before her. “Now leave!”

The door flung open, banging violently against the vardo’s side. Ian twisted to see who’d entered. Simone, hovered in the entrance, worry stamped across her face. Sighing, he stood and shoved the stool beneath the bed once more. It scraped loudly in the tiny structure.

Simone scooted by him and gathered Vangie into her arms. “Hush, bad inderi, my dear child.” Tilting her head, indicating the gaping door, she silently ordered Ian to leave.

With one last glance at his sobbing wife, he turned and took the two short strides to the open door. He bent to step through the narrow entrance and faltered briefly before descending the 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 and worried, swung her gaze from Ian, to the closed door, and back to him. “Lord Warrick?”

He met her troubled gaze.

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

Holy hell. Ian felt a flush steal its way to his neck then in blazing glory, to his face. 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, and 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?”

Ian clenched his jaw so tight, a muscle throbbed painfully, and his teeth threatened to crack. He wasn’t answering this damn interfering man.

The gypsy 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.” The gypsy’s deep voice echoed around the clearing.

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. A good fight might be just the thing. It had been the night of the ball.

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

King? God dammit to hell. Could things become any more preposterous? He 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 an eyebrow 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?”

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

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

Good God, whose idea was it to make Ailsa Vangie’s abigail? If Vangie returned to Somersfield with him—no, when she returned—a new lady’s maid would promptly be assigned. One who knew her station, possessed a mild temperament, and had the ability to control her tongue.

Anger or perhaps astonishment whisked across Besnik’s face.