Taken by the Wicked Rake. Christine Merrill

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СКАЧАТЬ old woman could hear. ‘I am concerned for what will happen to me, when my captor returns. I doubt that his plans for me are those of a gentleman. If you should hear any noises coming from the wagon … If I should be forced to scream for help …’

      The woman turned to her and gave her another cold stare, which caused her to fall silent. Then the old Gypsy went to the fire and removed the kettle, pulled a chipped mug from the table beside the fire, filled it and handed it to Verity. She went to a basket beside the tent, cut a thick crust from a loaf of bread, and handed her that, as well.

      ‘Thank you,’ Verity said loudly. And then she whispered, ‘Does this mean you will help me?’

      The woman said back in English, ‘It means that, if your mouth is full, you will not talk so much.’ And she walked away, returning to her tent and pulling the flap closed behind her.

      Verity sat alone by the fire, chewing upon the crust of bread, waiting to see what would happen next. Whatever she had expected of a Gypsy camp, it was not what she was seeing. After the half-hearted threat when she had tried to leave, the people were showing her no interest, too caught up in the work of the day to care about a stranger in their midst. There was the regular clink, clink of someone hammering a patch onto a pot, and another man worked the bellows over a small, portable forge.

      A few men worked together over a lathe, turning what appeared to be chair legs, or spindles for a banister. While they worked, they chatted in the strange language that the old woman spoke, sometimes resorting to a phrase or two of English before someone nodded in her direction and put a stop to it. Women tended fires and children, hung washing or swept debris from the floors of their tents. Everywhere she looked, people seemed busy.

      All except her.

      And she could not help the creeping feeling that she got on the back of her neck sometimes, that she was meant to be doing something, or being something, or going somewhere. Last night, Stephen Hebden had called her useless. She feared it was true. If the future had plans for her, she must hope that it would require nothing more taxing than watercolour drawing and excellent table manners. And playing the harp, of course.

      Uncle Robert had insisted that she continue her lessons during her visit with him. As she played, the ethereal sound of the instrument made her feel even less content than before. When people heard her practice, they made what they thought were flattering comments about her angelic nature. But from the way their attention seemed to drift as they talked to her, she suspected that, while they might claim to like angels very much, the company of them was sought in moderation and tempered with that of much more earthly women.

      She watched the angle of the light passing through the leaves, changing as the sun moved through the sky. And she wondered again at her location. Perhaps now that the people around her were too busy to notice, she should try again to slip away. But if she did escape, where would she go?

      Home, of course. She would find someone to escort her back to London. But of late, with Father sick and everyone else grown busy with their new lives, home did not really feel like home to her.

      She glanced around the camp again. But neither did this place, with its distant inhabitants and glowing sunlight. She had not slept since the Gypsy had kidnapped her, and now that she had opportunity, she was too tired to run away. Thanks to the old woman, she was neither as hungry nor as cold as she had been. Perhaps, after a nap, she would be better able to think of a way out of this dilemma. She closed her eyes and let her head loll.

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