Arabella offered a shrug. “I am afraid I will have to disappoint the Prussian King... I do not wish to marry again. In fact, I paid her extra for a chant so that I might never meet him.”
“Do you not wish for children?” Edmund asked, uncustomarily grim.
“Are you in agreement with the gypsy? Should I seek out King Frederick?”
Edmund seemed ready to speak on the subject, unfortunately another spoke first, “And now we all know her true intent. The baroness seeks to be a queen.”
Biting her lower lip, Arabella turned to find Mr. Harrow lounging in the shadows. He was positively humored. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harrow.”
Sitting atop a low wall, he smirked. He did not
stand or bow, simply purred her title in a way that set her teeth on edge. “Good afternoon, Arabella, Baroness of Iliffe and future queen of Prussia.”
“Perhaps you should visit the tent, Mr. Harrow,” Arabella replied. “I hear gypsies are skilled in summoning ghosts. You could exorcise the White Woman who haunts my home.”
“No.”
Chapter 10
C reeping downstairs amidst a slumbering household, Arabella appeared as a ghost of her past. The long plaits she’d worn in her hair as a girl, hung to her waist. Dressed in her shabbiest gown and cloak, she unhinged the door and snuck into the dark in search of her horse.
Payne was not to know what she was about. He would try to stop her, or go with her, and she could not allow either possibility. The man was too large, his appearance too unique to move in the shadows unrecognized as she could.
Alone on Mamioro’s back, her midnight race could be conducted quickly before any might know she was gone.
There could be no lantern, so she had to trust the stars. She could not be seen, so there were no roads to keep her safe from bogs. All she had as protection was the desperation of a woman with a dangerous idea. An idea that might help keep her and those she loved from ruin.
She was breathless by the time the fires of the fairgrounds winked in the distance. Mamioro’s coat had foamed, his heavy pants too loud for her to ride him any closer. She left the stallion to graze at a distance, and veiled her hair and face with a hood.
The young Romani men sat skirting the edges of camp, gambling with those Englishmen brave enough to play their cutthroat games. One foot before the other, Arabella marched past their tables, straight to the center of the caravans as if she had a right to be there.
Beyond the hung washing, in the corner set aside for family life, for chores and cooking, the old seer, the silver peddler, and a man with shining oiled curls waited. They eyed her warily, as did the other women and children, the old and young men... but none moved to stop her intrusion.
She was expected and equally unwelcome.
Carrying five times the amount of coin her demonic husband had tossed at her father’s feet, Arabella held her head high.
The man, arms crossed over his chest, stared meanly when Arabella took a seat at their fire. “The outcast I have heard so much of today.” He shifted his weight to get a better look at her. “You were not invited to sit.”
Her back to the villagers, she pulled down her hood and showed the man her face. “My name is Arabella. My father, Nicu Karela sold me at the age of fifteen to a noble. He let him drag me to a church in the middle of the night, where a clergyman was pulled from bed to see through a farce. My father let a stranger mount me over the altar seconds after I was forced to make vows to an outsider everyone knew was mad. And my father LAUGHED when he saw virgin blood on my wedding gown.”
Arabella rubbed a hand over her face, working to gather her temper. “After things were done to me I cannot repeat with children so near, I found a chance to flee. I fled back to my people. They would not look at me...” Even after so many years, the pain of that memory cut deep. “Not one of them tried to stop him when my father dragged me back to Baron Iliffe.”
Clearing his throat, the man frowned. “What is it you want?”
This was her chance to do more than pretend to be a baroness. She threw the heavy sack of coin toward the man. “The death of my husband did not lift my curse. His successor finds my Romani blood a shame upon the Iliffe name. For three years I have run from his threats. I am tired of running, but I know that once he finds me, I will die. I need to know when, where, and how he intends to do it.”
The silver peddler gave a gap-toothed smile. “My grandson, Ion, is handsome is he not?”
Narrowing her eyes, Arabella nodded in agreement with the crone. With his long curling hair and strong jaw, the man at the fire was well-built and virile. It changed nothing.
“You may remarry into our clan and rejoin your people. The English would forget about you.” It was the seer who made the offer, her unseeing eyes pointed at the fire. “That is how you will find your way again.”
Arabella shook her head, laughing to the point it was an insult. “You think I will reject your offer because I bear a title that commands respect from the English? You are wrong. I reject it because it is not only my life that is threatened. My household would suffer. I will not leave those who have been loyal to me without protection. Your caravan cannot shield us all.” Green eyes locked on Ion, her warning for him. “More importantly, your grandson cannot want me and would only accept such a flawed wife to fulfill his duty to family. I made that mistake once. You should desire better for him.”
Ion was no more interested in the prospect of marriage than she. Weighing the laden pouch, he asked, “What became of your father?”
“He thought to demand more money from Baron Iliffe for returning me.” Arabella needed this man to understand the danger. “His arguments were silenced by a blade through the heart. My husband killed him right in front of me.”