Gypsy Moon (9 page)

“I have a picture of her here somewhere,” the major persisted, fumbling through his pockets. “I’ll show you sometime. I thought she loved me. But she ran off—right before our wedding day.” A sob choked his words.

“It is best not to dwell on the past, but look to the future,” Mateo said rather harshly. The major was beginning to get heavy, and he was becoming boring. One or the other Mateo could stand, but not both at the same time.

Just ahead, the lights of the Planters Hotel shone brightly. Mateo paused and allowed the major to adjust his uniform and his emotions before they entered the lobby. Then he waited and let Major Krantz go in alone. He had no desire to be associated with this
gajo.
He followed a moment later, seemingly having arrived by himself.

Mateo’s errand might have seemed foolish to most at this hour of the night. And maybe it was. But at the time he had decided to fetch her trunk from the hotel, a hard ride alone through the darkness had seemed the only way to exorcise Charlotte Buckland from his senses. Sleep would have been hard put to find him, much less soothe him with pleasant dreams. And it seemed only right that her property be returned to her.

Mateo stood back, waiting for the night clerk to take care of Major Krantz before he approached the desk to state his business. To his chagrin, he saw it was the same clerk who had been there the day he’d brought Charlotte. And this one had a reputation for hating Gypsies. Mateo knew he would have to act mild and meek and watch his temper.

Major Krantz was soon checked in. He headed for his room without so much as a backward glance at Mateo, much less a thank-you. But Mateo didn’t expect any thanks. So it went with the
gajos.

When Mateo stepped forward, the clerk said with a leering grin, “Well, by damn, if it ain’t the bridegroom! What you doin’ in town? Sniffing around for a new piece already, are you? I figured you’d have that fiery little filly saddle broke and be ridin’ the wolf skin range by now.”

Mateo stared at the man uncomprehendingly.

“Did she keep up that hollering all night, like she was doin’ when you hauled her off from here?”

Charlotte! He was talking about Charlotte and Petronovich. Mateo bristled. The desk clerk must have seen his cousin taking her away and done nothing to stop the kidnapping.

“I’ve come for her trunk,” Mateo said, his voice deadly calm.

The clerk leaned his bald head to one side and gave Mateo a hard look through his thick glasses. “Well now! I don’t know as I can be handing over the little lady’s property to just anybody. Might be it’s valuable. And how’m I to know if you mean to return it to her? Hell! I know you thieving Gypsies and how you operate! You probably mean to take her things over to the saloon and trade ’em for whiskey. Nope! Can’t do it! Now get on outta here!”

Mateo stood where he was. Only the narrowing of his eyes and the warning twitch of a muscle in his neck betrayed his mounting rage.

“The lady’s trunk…
now
!” He spoke the words with such calm control that the underlying threat was barely discernible.

“See here!” said the clerk, backing away from Mateo, who was now leaning over the counter. “You nor none of your kind can come in here making demands! I said you ain’t gettin’ that trunk, and
you ain’t
!”

Mateo’s big hands shot out with lightning speed to grasp the clerk’s frayed lapels. He drew the man up and off the floor until he was half sprawled on the counter and they were eye to eye.

“I am a patient man… a man of peace. But you test my control! My patience will extend for exactly two more minutes. By that time you will either bring the trunk or find yourself with your rather large nose—which I find offensive in itself—flattened, and your body broken in a number of places. I will also see to it that our queen places a curse on you which will haunt you even after your wretched body mends.”

The clerk’s pockmarked face had gone deathly white. He feared physical pain, but more than that he was terrified at Mateo’s mention of a curse. Everyone had heard the tale of old Jake Kincaid, the prospector who had knocked up a Gypsy gal. Poor old Jake had sworn he never knew she was one of them, and besides, he’d been blind drunk when he’d jumped her. Didn’t matter! He’d never tossed another skirt to the day he died! They’d put a curse on him that purely shriveled him up to nothing. Jake’d sworn he had trouble finding it when he needed to piss!

The clerk nodded his head vigorously, too frightened to find his voice. Mateo released him and stood back, waiting patiently, as if nothing untoward had happened. The man, shaking badly, turned for the office door to retrieve Charlotte Buckland’s belongings. As soon as his back was to Mateo, he grabbed his crotch to make sure everything was still intact.

Charlotte awoke the next morning not to wild Gypsy music but to the familiar tinkling strains of a music box. She thought she must be dreaming. She knew that tune, but she had never heard it anywhere except when she opened the lid of the antique trunk Granny Fate had given her. She opened her eyes.

There it was. And kneeling beside it was Mateo, his dark hair tousled, his face unsmiling, but so handsome it made her want to reach out and draw his lips to hers. But no! She would not think such thoughts. Not ever again!

“Good morning,” he said, his tone husky, caressing.

Charlotte didn’t trust her voice. She merely nodded and clutched the fur blanket to her bare breasts.

“I have brought your things from the hotel.”

“Thank you, Mateo,” she managed at last.

She watched one sun-browned hand reach out toward her, as if he meant to touch her cheek. “Charlotte…” he began.

Suddenly, all her resolve from the night before vanished. Yes, she wanted him! No, it didn’t matter why he came to her or under what circumstances! She possessed little apart from her self-respect, but she would sacrifice even that to have Mateo.

She reached out to him, eagerly, longing to be taken into his strong, demanding arms. She was ready to finish with love what had last night been preempted by anger. How could she have been so foolish?

But Mateo ignored her gesture. He rose to his feet, towering over her, looking completely unattainable.

“I am going to exercise the stallions now so they will be ready when you arrive to begin your training. Please hurry. It is quite late. You’ve overslept.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the brides’ tent, slapping the soft leather of his boot top impatiently with his whip. Charlotte felt that she would prefer lashes from that whip to Mateo’s indifference. Tears welled up in her eyes.

For comfort, she turned to familiar things. Slowly, she removed the clothes from her trunk, sorting and refolding them. At last she reached the bottom. There was the ruby-eyed snake bracelet and the delicate
mantilla
—her wedding veil. Would she ever get to wear it?

“Mateo!” Charlotte sighed wistfully. She could visualize him standing tall and handsome beside her and the bridal veil covering her happy tears.

But no! She would never be his bride, only his partner in the ring. The thought filled her with blind fury.

What kind of man was he to steal her heart even as he refused to accept her love? Like none she had ever known before—or was likely to meet again.

Very well, she decided. She would join his act, perform for his adoring fans. But in the end, she would demand far more from him than he had stolen from her!

The hot morning sun beat down on Mateo’s bare shoulders, deepening his dark gold skin to bronze. But he hardly felt the heat, even though sweat ran in rivulets down his chest, soaking the tight waistband of his buckskin britches. He stood in the center of the clearing where he exercised his horses, a lead rope in his right hand, guiding one of his great stallions through its paces.

The intelligent animal knew that Mateo’s mind was not on his work this morning. The usual smooth, even rhythm of the master’s body was ever-so-slightly off. He held the rein in too tight a grip. And today his eyes were not those of the eagle.

Try as Mateo might, he could not force his thoughts from the night before, from Charlotte. Where had he gone wrong? It was all the same, in the ring with his horses or in love with a woman—one missed step and all was lost. Now here he was, waiting for her, about to introduce her to a dangerous business, and his mind was so steeped in desire and frustration that even his best horse was snorting in reproof at his inept handling. It wouldn’t do. He must get his mind on his
grai
so as not to endanger the woman he loved.

He unhooked the lead rein and slapped the big black fondly on the rump. “Go, you Black Devil! Find a pretty mare in the meadow and make her happy.”

The beautiful animal reared and pawed the air as if thanking Mateo before the sleek muscles bunched in his haunches and he streaked off to freedom. Mateo stared after him, wishing love could be so simple and straightforward an act between a man and a woman.

“Is that what you think makes a woman happy?” Charlotte’s quiet voice behind him made Mateo whirl around.

His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t used to people eavesdropping when he talked to his horses. Theirs was a sacred bond, he felt, not to be intruded upon by outsiders. But Charlotte Buckland was about to become a part of this closed society. He had no cause to be angry with her.

“Well, do you, Mateo?” she persisted.

His face was solemn as he answered her. “Yes, I believe it can make a woman very happy… with the right lover.”

Tension stretched between them like the tightrope far up in the circus tent. Charlotte was so tempted to ask him who he thought was the right lover for her—himself or Petronovich? The question trembled just behind her lips, begging to be asked. But she had sworn to hold her tongue on such matters. It would not do to begin their partnership in the ring with such a query.

“You look fit this morning.” Mateo walked around her, sizing her up with appreciative eyes as if she were a mare he was considering for purchase.

Charlotte stood very still, allowing his inspection, although he was embarrassing her terribly. She felt almost naked in the outfit he had provided as her practice costume. The flesh-colored doeskin britches fit every curve and contour of her legs, thighs, and buttocks. The second piece of the suit, a sleeveless jerkin, molded itself to her breasts, which strained at the low-cut neckline. Never before had she worn such a revealing costume. When she rode back in Kentucky, she was always dressed appropriately in a long riding skirt with a shot-weighted hemline, so that even her ankles were modestly hidden. Now, it seemed, Mateo wasn’t satisfied with making her wear such an outrageous outfit; he must also make her uncomfortable by his scrutiny.

“Are you ready to begin?” she snapped, whirling to face him.

A slow, almost mocking smile curved his full lips. “I’ve already begun, little one.”

For some reason she couldn’t figure out, his words embarrassed her further. Perhaps it was his sultry tone of voice or the way his bare chest heaved and the dark curls there glinted in the sun.

Away in the distance, she heard the amorous snorts of the great black horse and the nervous whinny of his mare. She glanced toward the meadow, and Mateo’s eyes followed hers. The Black Devil, as Mateo called his favorite, was mounting the smaller black mare. Although Charlotte had witnessed the coupling of horses all her life, the fact that Mateo was so close and watching with her made her cheeks flame and caused an uneasy heat to rise in her body.

“When her time comes, the foal is yours, Charlotte. It is only just, since you and I shared this mating.”

“Thank you, Mateo.” Her answer was simple, although her thoughts and emotions were not. Mateo’s generous offer pricked her conscience. He seemed to be pointing out the obvious, unspoken fact—that this mating was the
only
one they had shared or ever would.

“Now! Shall we begin, Charlotte?”

She nodded. She was more than ready! Anything to get her mind on something other than—than what she had been thinking about.

Mateo gave a sharp whistle, and all his stallions—except for the Black Devil, still busy in the meadow—came galloping out of the woods. They clustered around their master like children greeting a much-loved grown-up.

He laughed and patted necks, muzzles, and flanks as the stallions closed in on him. “You won’t get a thing that way,” he told them. “Back off. Give me room. You are worse than Poor Little Pesha… always mongering for handouts.”

The horses, seeming to understand his every word, backed away and allowed Mateo to retrieve his jacket from a nearby limb. Charlotte watched him, smiling, as he held the coat high above his head, taunting the eager horses.

“Ah, you want sweets, eh? Well, come, then. One at a time. Here.” He reached into a pocket, bringing out several hard lumps of sugar. “Here it is for you, my beauties.”

Charlotte watched in amazement as Mateo’s well-trained horses lined up, each awaiting its turn to take a treat from his palm.

“That’s marvelous, Mateo. They listen to every word you say. I’ve been around horses all my life, but I’ve never seen anything like this. What’s your secret?”

“There is no secret. These animals love me and I return that affection, openly and honestly. I treat them with the respect I desire from them, and they respond. They must come to love you, too, Charlotte, if we are to work together.” He looked at her suddenly with a solemn expression. “There must be a great deal of understanding and love among all of us.”

Oh, Mateo, there is! Charlotte thought. But she said nothing, only nodded.

Charlotte spent the next hour getting to know Mateo’s horses and letting them get used to her. She rode each one, bareback, around the clearing several times. Even the Black Devil came in from the meadow, but Mateo warned Charlotte never to try to ride him. By the time she’d been around and around the ring until her head was spinning, Mateo was grinning broadly.

“Yes, you will do, Charlotte Buckland! My
grai
know a horse person. There is no fooling them. Phaedra tried to win them over, but she could never conquer her fear. They sensed that and rejected her for it. But you are quite a different matter.”

Charlotte experienced the same delight she had always known when her father praised her. “Thank you, Mateo. I’ll try very hard. I want to be the best!” Suddenly she felt almost shy with him.

He walked over and patted the horse she was on, then gave it a lump of sugar. And just as casually, he reached up and patted Charlotte’s thigh, letting his big hand rest there. It seemed the most natural gesture in the world, but it sent a charge through her whole body. How could she ever hope to succeed in the ring if she couldn’t learn to control her emotions? Somehow she had to force herself to keep cool, calm, and in control. Yes, Mateo was the most desirable man she had ever met. She admitted that without the slightest hesitation. But
he
and
she
were not meant to be
they
! The sooner she reconciled herself to that, the better off she would be.

Mateo removed his hand as casually as he had placed it there and said, “Now that they know you, shall we try one thing more today before we let them rest? I think that will be all, then. I don’t want them to get overheated.”

Charlotte wiped the perspiration from her face with the back of her hand. She wondered if Mateo had given the slightest thought to how tired and hot
she
was.

“What next?” she asked. “I’m in your hands.”

He gave a great laugh. “How true, little dove!”

The next moment he leaped onto the back of Velacore, the horse she was sitting on, and positioned himself behind her. He placed both hands on her waist and pulled her so close that his chest molded itself to her back and his thighs clamped themselves to hers. The two of them became one with each other and the horse. Again Charlotte grew conscious of intense heat, but this time it wasn’t coming from the sun.

Mateo gave a signal and the horse began a gentle canter around the ring. Charlotte was acutely aware of Mateo’s body. He urged Velacore to more speed, and the friction between them increased. They were flying now, the trees at the edge of the clearing no more than a gold-and-green blur.

“You’re all right?” Mateo said close to Charlotte’s ear.

“Fine.”

“Very well, then. Velacore will continue at this pace until I signal otherwise. I will dismount and remount while you remain in place and guide him around the track. Keep an even hold on the reins. Are you ready to try it?”

Charlotte’s heart was thundering. She could do as Mateo instructed, but she feared for his safety. The horse was moving so fast. He might dismount without injury, but how would he ever be able to get back on?

“Charlotte? Are you ready?”

She pushed the fears from her mind; Mateo knew what he was doing. “Yes!” she shouted into the wind.

A moment later, she felt his weight shift against her. Now his hands were on her shoulders. He rose to a crouch on the back of the prancing horse. Then he was standing. As they neared a pile of straw beside the track, Mateo launched himself off the horse with the same ecstatic cry she had heard from him at the circus. She wanted to look to see if he’d landed safely, but she dared not turn her attention from horse and track.

“You are doing fine!” she heard him shout. “Steady on the reins now. I will be remounting from a second horse. Don’t be distracted when we move in beside you.”

Charlotte didn’t answer; she merely hung on, her heart pounding, her legs aching from gripping her mount. Around and around the track—sun blazing, dust flying, muscles straining—horse and rider flew. She had ridden all her life, but never like this. Never before had she felt one with a horse, known its effort and total coordination with its rider. The feeling was more than physical; it was deeply emotional as well.

She heard a second set of hooves pounding like a twin heartbeat. Again she dared not look. Closer and closer it came. The earth seemed to be shaking beneath her. She felt the heat of the horse’s breath on her leg. Then the great head came into view at the corner of her vision. Mateo made his transfer from one horse to the other with such perfection of timing that there was not one false step. He slid on behind her and gave another of his war whoops.

“We did it!” he cried, hugging the breath out of her.

Suddenly Charlotte found herself laughing and crying at the same time. “Yes! We did it!” She leaned back, luxuriating in Mateo’s embrace.

Before either of them realized what was happening, Mateo had turned Charlotte in his arms until his lips found hers. The unexpected joining came as naturally and spontaneously as their joy and excitement at success.

At first, Mateo’s kiss was nothing more than the congratulatory buss one friend bestows upon another. But the shock of flesh finding willing flesh soon flamed into a deep, sweet prelude to love.

Charlotte’s hands crept up Mateo’s bare back. Her breathing changed from deep drafts to shallow bursts as his strong fingers twined through her hair, gently forcing her head back, holding her in a grip that forbade her to turn away. So lovingly imprisoned, there was little else for her to do but respond, parting her lips for his intimate possession.

The noon sun burned down on them. The horse continued its slow rounds of the practice ring. And Charlotte Buckland, clasped tightly in the embrace she had sworn to deny, surrendered to Mateo’s forceful lips, his knowing hands, and her own desperate desires.

After the strenuous night she had spent in her lover’s arms, Phaedra slept until noon. Now, seated before the polished brass plate she used for a mirror, she prepared herself carefully for a special mission.

She would speak with Queen Zolande.

Carefully, Phaedra scrubbed the paint from her face. She brushed out her long, night-colored hair and parted it in the middle—a style she abhorred. But she knew that twin braids were favored by young girls and stately matrons. The queen must see her as pure and worthy—untainted by the slightest hint of passion.

“The queen…” Phaedra murmured to her own image. A smile parted her full lips and one eyebrow arched thoughtfully. She wasn’t thinking of old Zolande, however; she was visualizing a younger, stronger, more beautiful woman—and she was dreaming of the power of the Gypsy throne.

Phaedra had known of Mateo’s new partnership only an instant after the
phuri dai
had given her nod of approval. The news had traveled like wildfire through the Gypsy camp. Phaedra had chafed at the imagined rejection from the moment she’d heard. Granted, the decision to leave Mateo’s act had been hers and hers alone. But the idea that she was about to be replaced—and by the
gajo
woman, of all people—set her temper raging.

She couldn’t possibly have slept last night; she’d been far too upset. So the purple veil had seemed the logical solution. Only with Petronovich could she spend her angry passions. But this time even Petronovich’s willing lust had failed to dispel her fury. Mateo’s affront still rankled.

Angrily she tossed the braids over her shoulders. Why should she care? She had detested working with the horses—the heat, the dust, the constant practice for hours on end with Mateo always driving, issuing orders, and pointing out her slightest fault. She could never please him. Working with Petronovich’s Boski was so much more enjoyable. The crowds loved her. She was the star of the act. And she could manipulate the dumb, adoring beast as easily as she did its master.