Gypsy Moon (14 page)

“Don’t tell me he’s spinning wild tales to you again about taking you away from all this. You know he’ll never leave his people.”

Charlotte didn’t know what to say. Mateo had made no further mention of such a move in the past few weeks. Maybe Phaedra was right—maybe she was only living in a dream world.

“Besides,” Phaedra went on, her voice barely more than a whisper, “you haven’t done what every Gypsy woman must do to prove her loyalty and love for her man.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte was frowning now, growing uneasy. Had she failed Mateo in some way without knowing it?

“Were you a Gypsy woman, you would know without having to be told,” Phaedra said haughtily. “Before the man offers the brideprice, it is good for him to know that his woman can earn gold herself if it is ever needed.”

“But I am earning my keep. Mateo is paying me to work with him.”

Phaedra laughed. “Stupid little
gajo
! What sense does it make for a woman to earn money from her own man? What if he is sick or hurt and cannot work? Then who will pay either of you? No. You must know how to earn
gajo
gold.”

“You mean
begging
?” Charlotte was horrified. Hadn’t her mother predicted that she would end up doing exactly that if she didn’t marry Winston Krantz?

“If that’s all you can do. But there is a far better and faster way to bring in money. I’ve been quite successful at it in Leavenworth.”

“Then tell me! Certainly if
you
can do it, Phaedra, I’ll be superb at it,” Charlotte replied, matching the other woman’s sarcastic tone.

“Very well. There is a code among the
Roms.
Their women must never give themselves to other men for pleasure, but it is quite acceptable to do so to earn gold when it is needed.”

Charlotte gasped. “No!”

“You said you were willing to do
anything
for Mateo.” Phaedra shrugged. “And yet you refuse the least suggestion. When I tell him, he’ll never look on you with favor again. But very well. We all know you are no Gypsy. You’ve only proven it by your refusal.”

Phaedra swished her skirts and started away, but Charlotte caught her arm.

“Wait! Why hasn’t anyone else told me of this before?”

“Perhaps they guessed you would refuse. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. But I was wrong.”

Fear and panic seized Charlotte. What Phaedra was suggesting was unthinkable. But if the Gypsies… if
Mateo
expected it of her, how could she say no?

“Don’t tell Mateo, Phaedra!”

“Don’t tell him what?”

“That we’ve even talked about this. Please!”

“Then you’ve changed your mind?”

Charlotte still hesitated. She could talk to Tamara about it, but her friend might feel compelled to tell Mateo. Charlotte didn’t want him to find out, for fear she might back out at the last moment.

“Yes!” Charlotte answered after taking a deep, steeling breath. “I will do it… for Mateo.”

A catlike smile curled Phaedra’s lips. “I give you credit, little
gajo.
You have more gumption than I thought. Meet me at the edge of the forest tonight. Petronovich will drive us to town.”

“Petronovich?” Charlotte said uneasily.

“He should not concern you. I am more than enough woman to keep him occupied!”

Phaedra stalked away, leaving Charlotte in a quandary of fear and worry. She stood there, watching the other woman disappear into her tent. What had she gotten herself into?

Kentucky and her old, ordered way of life seemed far away and near forgotten. She was not the young girl who had run off in a fit of impassioned rebellion. Charlotte Buckland was a woman now.

“But what kind of woman?” she whispered aloud.

Just a few feet away, inside her tent, Queen Zolande was wondering the same thing about Charlotte Buckland. She had heard everything that had passed between the pair. Her first impulse had been to rise from her bed and scold Phaedra severely. But why should she? Every word Phaedra had spoken to Charlotte was the truth. During lean times in the old country, Zolande’s own mother had been forced to sell her body to the
gajos
in the towns to feed her family. It was every Gypsy woman’s duty.

Still, this Charlotte Buckland was not a Gypsy. Zolande could tell by the quaking of her voice that the very idea was repulsive to the girl.

The queen pondered the problem. She could go now and tell Charlotte that Mateo would never expect this of her, a
gajo
—in fact, it would no doubt provoke his wrath rather than earn his respect.

Then the old woman nodded to herself. “Yes,” she whispered. “This is as it should be.”

Zolande had sought a means to convince Charlotte to return to her own people and leave Mateo to his duty. Now Phaedra, with her wicked cunning, had come up with the perfect scheme to accomplish that end.

The queen sighed and closed her eyes in sleep.

Outside, Charlotte stood where Phaedra had left her, staring blankly down at her basket of berries. She couldn’t face Mateo’s mother right now. The old queen, she knew, could read thoughts. Charlotte was too ashamed of what was in her mind at the moment to want anyone to know. Her body felt stricken with cold at the very idea of what she had committed herself to do. How could she let another man use her body when it belonged to Mateo by word and deed?

Slowly, she walked toward the front of Queen Zolande’s tent. She peeked through the flap and was relieved to find Mateo’s mother napping. The old queen looked noble even in sleep. These Gypsies were indeed a proud people.

Placing the basket of berries just inside, Charlotte rose and squared her shoulders. Suddenly a great resolve gripped her—a feeling of honor, duty, and the tightness of things. She knew what she must do.

But when the actual time came, could she really bring herself to lie with a strange man, even if it was part of a Gypsy woman’s obligation?

Yes!
She could and would do
anything
for Mateo!

“I am
Mateo’s woman
!” she said, turning, her head held high.

The Star of the West saloon was busy for a week night. Besides the usual locals and soldiers from Fort Leavenworth, a wagon train headed for California had come in at almost the same time a rowdy bunch of cowboys hit town. Their pay from a trail drive would be burning in their pockets until it was all spent on liquor and paid-for love.

But Solange certainly had no complaints about booming business. This was the type of night every saloon keeper dreamed of. She would make more money in a few hours than she normally did in a week. As she poured more whiskey for two dusty drovers at the bar, she smiled to herself, thinking that she might even clear enough to give her girls a bonus. They would deserve it before this night was through.

“How much longer?” demanded the good-looking cavalry officer at the end of the bar. His temper, she could tell, was growing shorter by the minute.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Delacorte,” Solange said with a winning smile. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time. But all my girls are still upstairs, and who can say exactly how long love takes?”

He muttered a curse into his drink and tossed down another whiskey. Solange frowned. He was getting very drunk. She hoped one of the girls would be down soon. Lieutenant Lance Delacorte could be surly when sober, but he was impossible when inebriated. He came here once a week, always for the same thing—a bottle of whiskey and a woman. Usually, he was quiet and kept to himself—a real loner. But when crossed, he could get ugly.

She wished that he would take his business elsewhere. Handsome as he was, with his night-dark hair and smoke-gray eyes, he was a strange man. At times, according to her girls, he could be brutal in bed. Not one of them desired his company. Still, he had never done any permanent damage. She had no real reason to turn him away.

“How about you, Solange?” Delacorte said suddenly. “You keep saying ‘some other time.’ What’s the matter with me? I know you take other men upstairs. Why not me? Why not right this goddamn minute?”

The lieutenant was on his feet, coming down the bar toward her. His step was unsteady. His eyes looked bleary. His face was flushed from the whiskey. Before Solange could reply, he reached across the bar and grabbed her wrist in a painful grip, pulling her toward him until his lips were almost touching hers.

She remained cool. “You’re hurting me, Lieutenant. Please let go.”

“Dammit, woman, I’ll do more than that if you don’t get this show under way! I want you…
now
!”

“I can’t leave the bar. There’s no one else to tend to the customers. Besides, I decide upon my own customers. They do not choose me.”

“Meaning you don’t choose
me
!”

“However you wish to put it, Lieutenant.”

Delacorte was truly angry now, and Solange was feeling a rise of panic. She hadn’t handled the situation well. But then, she didn’t care for the way he was manhandling her. Perhaps she should have Farlow, the bouncer, throw him out. But she didn’t want a scene on such a busy night. It was bad for business.

“Lieutenant Delacorte, please be reasonable. I’m sure that either Bella or Rosalie will be down any moment.”

He made an angry sound in his throat. “Bella’s a bitch! And Rosalie’s old enough to be my mother.”

“Then perhaps you prefer Lydia?”

“I prefer
you
!” Delacorte tightened his grip on her wrist.

Solange nodded almost imperceptibly toward Farlow. The huge, burly bouncer, who resembled the Gypsies’ performing bear, ambled toward the bar.

“Take your hand off the lady, mister,” Farlow said in a quiet, deadly voice.

Lance Delacorte hesitated, then slowly uncurled his fingers from Solange’s wrist, exposing angry red marks where his grip had bruised her flesh.

“You want I should throw him out, Miss Solange?” Farlow asked.

She stared at the lieutenant for a moment. He seemed subdued now. She didn’t think he would give her any more trouble. Besides, he had been waiting a long time. She waved Farlow away.

“No. Thank you. I’m sure Lieutenant Delacorte will behave himself now.”

Charlotte felt queer—woozy. The full impact of what she was about to do was just beginning to seep into her consciousness. Squeezed in next to Phaedra on the front seat of the caravan, she hung on for dear life as Petronovich whipped his horses into a gallop. She prayed that a wheel would come off and wreck the wagon. Maybe she would be killed in the accident and wouldn’t have to go through with this. Her earlier facade of brave self-assurance fled as they approached Leavenworth.

They hit a bump, which nearly unseated all three of them. Petronovich and Phaedra whooped and laughed. They were having a fine time. Charlotte sat in silence, utterly miserable.

“How are you doing, little mouse?” Petronovich asked, still laughing.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Charlotte replied stiffly.

“She will loosen up when we get there, Petronovich. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried. I only pity the poor
gajo
who will pay good money for her bad-tempered bites and scratches. As I remember, this one is anything but willing in bed.”

Charlotte’s cheeks burned and her stomach twisted uncomfortably. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of right now was that night in her hotel room with Petronovich.

“Mateo didn’t seem to have any complaints,” Phaedra taunted.

“Ah, but the moon madness was upon him at the time, love. Under those circumstances, he could have found pleasure with one of his mares.”

Charlotte ached with embarrassment. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that Petronovich knew of her night with Mateo. Did everyone in the
familia
know? The thought was mortifying.

The caravan rumbled into Shawnee Street. The broad thoroughfare was lined with hard-ridden horses tied up at the hitching posts. Loud music blared from the saloon. Inside, people were singing, laughing, and Charlotte thought she heard a woman’s muffled screams. The hair rose on the back of her neck.

“Where are we going?” she ventured, wondering why she hadn’t thought to ask before.

“To the Star of the West,” answered Petronovich. “The best bawdy house in town. Looks like a good night, too. Solange must have her hands full with ail those customers.”

“A
bawdy house
?” Charlotte gasped. “But I thought…”

“You thought what?” Phaedra challenged her with a stony stare.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte whispered, looking down to avoid the other woman’s gaze. “I thought there was a gentleman you knew and you were taking me to his home and that it would all be very discreet.”

Both Phaedra and Petronovich howled with laughter, making Charlotte feel even worse.

“Whoring is not a discreet profession,” Phaedra said coldly. “You go where the men and the money are.”

“Don’t call it ‘whoring,’ love,” Petronovich added sarcastically. “Do you want to offend the little
gajo’s
delicate sensibilities? Call it ‘sacrificing in the name of love.’ After all, she is doing this for Mateo.”

“Right,” Phaedra said, laughing, “for Mateo! I can hardly wait to see the
pleasure
on his face when you give him the gold and tell him how you earned it.”

Charlotte wanted to believe Phaedra’s words, but she didn’t like her tone. There was something ugly and menacing in Phaedra’s voice. Maybe this whole thing was a setup to degrade her and get even. Certainly neither Phaedra nor Petronovich had any feelings of friendship toward her.

“I’ve changed my mind!” Charlotte said suddenly. “Turn the horses back, please.”

More laughter from the two of them greeted her plea. Petronovich jumped down to tie the team to the hitching post outside the saloon. Hearing the bells on the Gypsy caravan, several customers had already come outside to take a look. Charlotte noticed that one dark-haired cavalry officer seemed particularly interested in the bizarre trio. He approached Petronovich and spoke to him quietly. Gold changed hands. The lieutenant came to the wagon and motioned for Charlotte to get down.

“Come with me,” he commanded.

Charlotte shrank away from him, but Phaedra gave her a shove. She lost her balance and fell into the strange man’s arms. He held her for a few moments, staring into her wide, frightened eyes. She was very aware of her breasts crushed against his hard chest in the punishing embrace. He was holding her so tightly that she had difficulty breathing. Her head felt light.

A slow smile spread over his face. “Yes, this one will do fine,” he said to Petronovich.

The next moment, Lance Delacorte had his arm locked around Charlotte’s waist and was dragging her toward the swinging doors of the saloon. The other men parted to let them enter but stood gawking and sniggering.

“No! Please, let me go,” she cried. “This is a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake. I know what you Gypsy women come to town for. I’ve already paid your man… probably more than you’re worth.”

“Let me go! He’s not my man. And I’m not a Gypsy.”

“But you
are
a woman. That’s all I care about at the moment.”

As Lieutenant Delacorte pushed Charlotte into the saloon to face the curious stares of a multitude of gaping cowboys and soldiers, she heard Phaedra call out with a laugh, “Remember! It’s for Mateo.”

Solange didn’t like the looks of this at all. She didn’t recognize the woman in Gypsy garb whom Lance Delacorte had hauled in off the street, but she had a feeling the pretty blonde was not a Gypsy, not a prostitute, and not a willing partner for the lieutenant’s bed.

“Give me a key, Solange,” Delacorte demanded.

“You know all the rooms are occupied right now, Lieutenant.”

The ploy didn’t work. “Yours isn’t! The key dammit!”

Solange hesitated a moment longer, staring at Lance Delacorte’s companion. The girl was wild-eyed with fear. She seemed to be in a daze. Maybe she was drunk. She appeared not to know where she was or what was happening.

“Mademoiselle, are you all right?” Solange asked Charlotte.

“Everything’s fine, Solange,” Delacorte cut in. “Just give me the goddamn key before I take this place apart.”

“I would prefer you wait for one of my own girls, Lieutenant. It’s not good to bring strange women in off the streets. It’s against the house policy.”

“To hell with your policy. Either you give me that key right this minute, or I swear to you, Solange, I’ll take her right over there on top of that poker table! How does that fit in with
house policy?”

To prove he meant the words, Delacorte yanked the peasant blouse from one of Charlotte’s shoulders, exposing a creamy expanse of breast. His action was greeted by hoots and whistles of approval. A gang of cowboys moved in, egging him on:

“Go to it, soldier boy!”

“Yeah, show us your stuff!”

“Ride ’em, cowboy! Whoo-e-e-e!”

Charlotte felt very odd. She was aware of everything that was happening, but she seemed to be viewing it from afar. Her head throbbed and she felt alternately burning hot and chilled. She tried to fight her way out of the lieutenant’s grasp, but her muscles seemed to be made of water. Her limbs refused her commands. It was almost as if she’d been drugged. Then the realization hit her. She had been!

Earlier in the evening, Phaedra had come to the brides’ tent. At that point, Charlotte had decided against accompanying the two Gypsies to town and had told Phaedra just that. At first the woman had flared at her in anger, calling her an assortment of vile names. Then she’d left the tent and returned a few moments later with a bottle of wine—a “peace offering,” she’d called it. She had insisted that they have a glass together.

Charlotte knew the strong, sweet taste of Gypsy wine. She had never tasted any that had such bitterness and bite as this one. It was after the second glass that she had once more agreed to this mad scheme. At that moment, it had seemed the most logical thing in the world to do.

“Well, Solange? Where will it be?” Delacorte demanded. “Upstairs? Or…” Abruptly, he shoved chips, cards, and glasses from a table and lifted Charlotte—none too gently—onto the green baize cover.

Solange glanced nervously about. She’d sent Farlow on an errand; he was nowhere to be seen. And all her customers seemed to be siding with Lieutenant Delacorte. There were many impatient customers in the crowd who had been waiting overlong for her girls to get to them. In another few moments she’d have a riot on her hands, and only heaven knew what they would do then to this poor girl.

“Here, Lieutenant, take the key. My room is at the end of—”

“I know!” Delacorte snapped.

The next moment, Charlotte was being hauled up the stairs, accompanied by the whistles and lewd comments of the men in the barroom. She put up a valiant struggle, but it was no use. The lieutenant meant to have what he had paid for.

“What do you mean, ‘Charlotte’s not here’?”

Mateo stood outside the door to the brides’ tent, demanding information from Tamara. It was well past dark. Surely Charlotte hadn’t gone roaming in the woods alone at this hour. Something was very wrong.

“I’m sorry, Mateo. I don’t know where she is. When I came back here from the queen’s tent, she was gone. There were two wineglasses on the table, but no other clues as to who was here with her or where they might have gone. It’s not like her to leave without telling me.”

Mateo stared long and hard at the pretty, velvet-eyed woman and decided she was telling him the truth. But Tamara the fortune-teller knew many truths. She always seemed to know without being told what was going on. Something in the taut lines around her mouth told Mateo that she was aware of more than she was willing to say, and that she didn’t like what she knew.

“Tamara, where is she?” he demanded.

“It is not my place to say, Mateo. Speak to your mother.”

Tamara’s reply sent a rush of anxiety through him. Had his mother finally sent Charlotte away to try and break the bond between them? He felt a deep rage filling his chest. Then, as he neared the queen’s tent, he noticed something that turned his rage to dread. Petronovich’s caravan was gone!

He stormed into his mother’s tent and demanded, “Where is she?”