Gypsy Moon (29 page)

They came together with great tenderness, savoring a reunion too long postponed. His hands played over her body, testing to make sure she was unharmed. The feel of his flesh, warm against hers, sent a million thrilling sensations dancing through her. She drew his lips to hers, but his hands took possession of her breasts. Their kiss lingered, growing more fervent as he sought the sweet honey of her mouth with his tongue. She pressed close to his hard body, feeling the heat she kindled there.

“Your grandmother wants princes,” he whispered. “I promised her we would do our best.”

“I never like to disappoint Granny Fate,” Charlotte said, then she laughed softly.

“What is it?”

“She told me before I left that someday a man would come to my cave, claim me for his own, and steal me away. She couldn’t know of this place. She must be a Gypsy fortune-teller.”

His hands trailed down her body as they talked. “And do you want me to steal you away, after all that’s happened, Charlotte?”

“Not this very minute,” she answered, snuggling closer and guiding his hand downward.

He glanced toward the cave’s opening. “Not until the snowstorm stops.”

“How long will that be?” she asked. Her voice quavered as he found her special spot and stroked her gently.

“All night, at least.”

A wolf howled in the distance, and she shuddered at the sound. “We’d better not go to sleep. They might come back.”

“Mmm,” he sighed into the softness between her breasts. “I hadn’t planned to. Since stealing is out of the question, I thought I might claim you instead.”

A moment later, he slid her beneath him. Neither of them could wait any longer, though the whole night was theirs. He entered her with a sure, quick thrust and found her moist and ready to receive him. The wind and the wolves howled outside, but inside the cave all was warm and scented with love.

They rode to the summit and poised there, basking in the golden glow of exquisite fulfillment. Then, ever so slowly and gently, they spiraled downward in each other’s arms.

All the long night through, Mateo worshiped his Golden One and she lavished him with love.

Near dawn, when the wind had died and the storm was past, Mateo gave up his lover’s lips to whisper into her ear, “What shall we name our little prince?”

Charlotte smiled up at him, her face aglow and her eyes asparkle. “Why don’t we call him Fate?”

Mateo nodded. “I like that. It’s a man’s name. I can hear it now, being told around campfires for generations to come: ‘Born of the Golden One and Prince Mateo, the prince of Fate. Let it be said of the
Rom
named Fate that he never feared the full moon.’”

Charlotte turned Mateo’s face to hers. “Nor did his father,” she added.

“Not ever… so long as he had his golden Gypsy’s love.”

Mateo took her back into his arms, and once more the cave was filled with sighs and warmth and love.

“Mateo!” Charlotte shrieked. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

They’d been headed back toward the Gypsy camp, riding in the early-morning sun—talking quietly, touching occasionally, smiling into each other’s eyes as they savored the memory of their night of lovemaking—when suddenly Mateo’s arm had shot out, grabbing Charlotte around the waist.

Now she felt herself being dragged from Velacore’s back onto his mount. A moment later she was lying across Mateo’s hard thighs, staring down at the patches of snow on the ground. She kicked and screamed and threatened, but he held her fast, urging the Black Devil to more speed.

“Have you lost your mind?” she yelled. Turning her head slightly, she could see through the hair flowing down over her eyes that he was wearing a magnificent grin.

“That’s very good, Charlotte.” He demonstrated his pleasure with a sharp swat upon her rear. “Only louder—yell louder!”

“Oh,
you
!” she seethed. “Let me down this instant! Who do you think you are, treating me this way?”

“I am the man who is about to be your husband, my love,” he answered calmly. “But you aren’t acting like a proper bride-to-be. Can’t you really let go for me a time or two? Scream, my darling, scream!”

Charlotte was fuming, furious, so angry and humiliated that she would have liked to scratch his eyes out. He wanted a scream? Very well, she would give it to him! She let fly such a shrill cry that blackbirds perched on a nearby tree took wing in a panic. She screamed and screamed until her lungs burned and her throat ached. But Mateo only held her fast and laughed as if this were the grandest joke in all the world. Well, it was no joke to Charlotte. She was damn good and mad!

“You turn me loose! Do you hear?” He ignored her. “I’m warning you, Mateo!” He laughed harder. “You can’t treat me this way.” He swatted her again and she went for his leg with her teeth.

“Ow!” he howled. “Stop that, woman!”

“And don’t call me
woman
!” she hollered. “So help me, Mateo, when we get back to camp, I’m going to tell the queen how you’ve treated me. Everybody’s going to know about this!”

“I sincerely hope so, my golden beauty!”

When they rode into camp, Charlotte was still shrieking her rage, pounding her fists, and by that time swearing she hated him and would never marry him. Everyone from the queen right down to the tiniest toddler converged on the clearing. They stood staring at Charlotte, draped unceremoniously across Mateo’s horse. And they were cheering, laughing, and congratulating their prince while they passed around bottles of wine to toast the occasion. Charlotte watched from her upside-down vantage point as Granny Fate took the bottle, tipped it up, and then gave a delighted cheer

“They’ve all gone mad!” Charlotte muttered.

Suddenly Mateo righted her and turned her in his arms. She drew her fist back to land a blow to his jaw, but he caught her hand and pulled her tightly against his chest, locking her in such an embrace that she couldn’t fight him. The next instant, his mouth came down hard on hers, silencing her angry protests. The unexpected intensity of his kiss drained the fight from her. He released her at last, and she stared up into his eyes. He was smiling down at her, love pouring from his beaming face.

“You did well, my Golden One,” he whispered. “You are a true Gypsy woman—filled with passion and spirit.”

Charlotte suddenly realized what was happening, even as Mateo turned her to face the crowd and shouted, “I have stolen my woman from her cave. Here is my bride, Charlotte Buckland!” This was all part of the wedding ritual. He had to steal her and bring her into camp still fighting him, so that his
familia
could be witnesses as he subdued his woman.

She looked up into his shining face. Her anger had given way once again to love. Her heart pounded. Oh, how she wanted him at this moment! They smiled at each other, then she leaned her head against his chest. The Gypsies burst into loud applause.

“Come now, Charlotte.” Granny Fate reached up and took her hand. “It is time for you to prepare for your wedding.”

Charlotte gave Mateo an uncertain look.

“Go with your grandmother,” he told her. “Make ready to be my wife. My love goes with you.”

He helped her down from the Black Devil’s back. The crowd parted, making a path to the brides’ tent. Granny Fate led the way, with Charlotte following a few paces behind. At the blue door, Charlotte paused and turned. Mateo stood watching her, his eyes burning with the light of love. He blew her a kiss and suddenly she felt very small and shy. She hurried inside and closed the door on the cheering throng and the man she would marry.

The wedding was set for the next full moon. In the interim, Charlotte did not lay eyes on Mateo. She felt almost as if she’d been locked away in a nunnery. The brides’ tent became her entire world. She was not even permitted to leave to attend her mother’s wedding to Winston Krantz. She spent long hours being tutored by Tamara in the ways of a Gypsy woman and by Granny Fate in the traditions of marriage. She learned the story of the curse from beginning to end. After two weeks of this, Charlotte became rebellious.

“I want to see him, Granny Fate!” She stood with arms crossed angrily over her chest and stamped her bare foot on the earthen floor.

“Tsk-tsk!” The old woman made a sign to ward off the evil eye. Brides were especially susceptible. “No, you can’t see him! What a thing to say! Nothing is more taboo, Charlotte. The very idea!”

“But we’ve been separated almost the whole time since my accident. It’s not fair!”

“Charlotte, listen to your grandmother,” Tamara put in quietly. “She is wise in these things. You don’t want to go against the ancient customs, do you? It would spoil everything. It would shame Mateo in the eyes of the others.”

Charlotte flopped down on the rug with a sigh of resignation and dropped her chin into her hands. “Oh, all right!”

“Good,” said Granny Fate. “Now I want you to concentrate on your weeping.”

“I don’t see why I have to cry on the happiest day of my life.”

“You will cry because it is expected of you!” Granny Fate told her.

Charlotte sat there, trying to think of the saddest things in all the world—a broken china doll, a lost kitten, a horse that had to be destroyed. She’d just about had herself worked up to tears when her thoughts strayed back to Mateo. A smile crept over her face. She glanced up at Granny Fate. The woman was frowning down at her.

“You are impossible!” Fatima threw her hands up in disgust. “You will disgrace us all. Who has ever heard of a
smiling
Gypsy bride?”

“I’m sorry, Granny Fate. Maybe if you explained to me why I’m supposed to be sad. I simply can’t cry for no reason.”

Charlotte’s grandmother—her patience strained, but still intact—knelt beside the bride-to-be. “Close your eyes and think about what I’m saying, please. You are very, very young. A mere child. And, of course, a virgin. A man—a tall, fierce-looking stranger—has come to take you away. You love your father and your mother, your brothers and sisters. You do not want to be snatched away from the bosom of your beloved family. What if the man is cruel to you? What if he is not gentle on your wedding night? What if he starves you… beats you? How will you ever know another moment of happiness once you are taken from your family by this terrible stranger? There is so much for a bride to weep over.”

Granny Fate stopped and looked at Charlotte. Her eyes were still closed, still dry. She was still smiling.

“You are hopeless—not a fit bride at all!”

“I’m sorry, Granny Fate, but none of those things apply. I’m not a child. Mateo is not a stranger. I have no brothers and sisters, no father to miss. Mateo would never beat me or starve me. And I can hardly wait for my wedding night, whether he is gentle or not!”

“Every virgin weeps on her wedding day!”

“I’m not
that,
either,” Charlotte admitted quietly.

“On the holy breast of the Handmaiden, bite your tongue! What are you saying? Not a virgin? We will get
nothing
for you!” Granny Fate closed her eyes and began making a mournful, keening sound.

“Well, you told Mateo you wanted princes!”

“You are blaming this on
me
? Fatima Lee Buckland, who went to her husband’s wolf skins pure as the driven snow—knowing
nothing
of men and love?” She raised her bejeweled hands to heaven and pleaded, “Slome, Slome, what have I done in this life to deserve such a granddaughter?”

“Granny Fate,” Tamara said softly, “perhaps she’s just tired. Why don’t you go out for a walk? I’ll watch over her.”

Tamara, the eternal peacemaker, soothed both women that day and for the rest of their confinement prior to the wedding. With marvelous understanding and diplomacy, she kept the peace while Charlotte learned of the henna ceremony, the haggling over the brideprice, and everything else it took to become a Gypsy bride.

And during the period of instruction, Tamara’s skilled hands fashioned the bridal costume. Charlotte would wear the traditional
salvar,
the billowing harem-style pants of diaphanous white material, and a matching full-sleeved blouse. Other costumes of similar design had to be created out of equally fine fabrics to serve her during the days before the actual ceremony. And even as Tamara worked, the
lohari
—the blacksmith—was busy hammering silver coins into thin sheets to be wrought into fanciful jewels, or
peche,
to adorn the bride’s forehead and hair.

As the time drew near, Charlotte grew more and more nervous. Although she wasn’t allowed outside, she could hear the bustle of activity. All day and all night, it seemed, the Gypsies sang and danced and laughed and loved. She longed to join in the celebration. Mateo was there with the others. But Granny Fate had told her that she must stay hidden from everyone until the groom’s family came to them to perform the first henna ceremony.

Just before the full moon, Queen Zolande and several of Mateo’s female cousins, bearing a pan of the sacred henna, knocked at the door of the brides’ tent.

“We have come to insure the piety of the bride,” the queen called out.

Charlotte shuddered slightly at the sound of Zolande’s voice. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she was ready. She stood in the center of the room, dressed in a
salvar
of turquoise satin with a sheer pink blouse. A thin, silver flower
peche
adorned her forehead, and the thick gold ring sent by Mateo encircled the middle finger of her left hand.

“Enter!” Granny Fate said solemnly.

The women, led by Queen Zolande, filed in, looking as somber as pallbearers. Again, dread touched Charlotte’s heart. But the moment the door shut behind them, they all began singing, laughing, and teasing the bride good-naturedly. They danced around the bowl of thick reddish-brown paste—the sacred henna brought from their homeland, which had been beaten to powder and mixed with water.

“Ah, she looks fine!” Zolande whispered to Fatima.

“I shall remember your words when it comes time to settle on a brideprice, my old friend.”

Mateo’s gold had been returned to Zolande. It would be needed for the haggling. Two thousand would be the price, they all knew that. But what was a Gypsy wedding without a good argument over money between the two families? Horse traders were horse traders, whether their object be a mare or a bride.

With much giggling and joking, Mateo’s cousins went about their work—dyeing Charlotte’s long golden hair with the henna concoction. While they waited for it to dry, they ate little meat pies and goat cheese and drank wine, all the while teasing Charlotte about the wedding night until she was in tears.

Granny Fate smiled and pointed this out to Queen Zolande.

“A good sign, a weeping bride,” the queen agreed, nodding sagely.

Then, for the first time in nearly three weeks, Charlotte was allowed out of the brides’ tent. To her disappointment, Mateo was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire camp was deserted.

“No one must see you, Golden One,” the queen told her. “All the others have been sent away for the day.”

The women led Charlotte to the stream. There they all stripped, amidst much giggling and singing. For the first time, Charlotte was forced to join the others in the frigid water for their communal bathing. She had no choice.

“It is
tradition
!” her grandmother bellowed when Charlotte objected.

The women took turns running their hands through Charlotte’s long hair until the last of the henna had been washed away. But the dye had done its work, turning her pale gold tresses to a rich bronze. And according to the queen, her piety was now assured.

That night, Charlotte felt exhausted. She had been the center of attention all day, with not a moment to herself. All she wanted was to fall down on her pallet and sleep. But as darkness fell, Granny Fate came and shook her awake.

“They are coming to take you! We must defend ourselves!”

Charlotte stared up at her grandmother, convinced that she was still asleep and dreaming. Fatima held several brooms and sticks. Draped around her neck were chains, two heavy skillets tied together with leather thongs, and a sack filled with rocks.

She rubbed her eyes. “Granny Fate, what on earth?”

“Hurry, Charlotte! The groom’s family is almost here. We must put up a good fight!”

She dragged her granddaughter from the bed and hauled her out through the blue door. The table from the tent was turned over like a barricade just outside. Overturned chairs flanked its sides. More sticks, rocks, and old pots were piled nearby.

“They plan to take you tonight so that they do not have to pay the brideprice, but we will see about that! Here take this bag. When they come near, throw the rocks at them.”

“But Granny Fate—”

“Don’t argue, girl. Do as I say!”

Sure enough, in a matter of moments, a mob had formed and was coming across the clearing toward them, armed with sticks and pots. They yelled and threatened as if they were out for blood.

“Fire!” Granny Fate screamed, jumping to her feet and waving one of her wooden broom swords.