She led him back to her campfire. Maria had risen, was starting to walk away. Anastasia hadn't thought how she might not appear sick at all to the stranger, yet she needn't have worried. She was too used to seeing Maria daily, which was why she hadn't guessed herself how ill she was. But looking at her through a stranger's eyes, she appeared ancient, pale, feeble—tired of living. It wrenched her heart, to see her that way.
"Gran, I have someone for you to meet."
"Not tonight, child, I need to rest."
Anastasia hadn't expected that, especially since she knew Maria hadn't heard what had been said by Ivan's campfire. Yet she realized quick enough that Maria was attempting to give her some needed time alone with the Englishman. She would have stopped her, though, wanted her opinion of the man, which Maria couldn't formulate if she didn't speak to him herself. He changed her mind.
"Let her go," he said abruptly. "I can see she is not well."
Anastasia nodded and indicated one of the plump canvas pillows on the ground for him to sit on. "I will fetch you something to drink—"
"That won't be necessary," he cut in as he hobbled his horse a few feet away, then joined her. "Sit. I am intoxicated enough by the sight of you."
She couldn't have asked for a better response from him. She still blushed. She simply wasn't used to this game of enticement, wasn't sure how to play it. But she knew it was her only option, the only way that she could possibly get him to marry her.
She joined him by the fire. Close up, he was even more handsome than she had thought. Everything about him, in fact, was pleasing to the eye.
His clothes were elegant, rather than gaudy as some lords favored. The brown coat that came to his knees was embroidered only on the flaps of the pockets and the large cuffs; the wide skirt of it flared around him as he sat. His knee breeches fit snugly and, with one knee raised to rest his arm on, showed how thickly muscled his thighs were.
The gartered stockings were white silk, as was his shirt, though the only evidence of the shirt was in the ruffles that appeared below his wide, turned-back coat cuffs, and the frills of lace down the front of the shirt that formed his jabot. His body-conforming waistcoat was beige brocade, fastened with a long row of gold buttons, left open from hip to thigh to facilitate easy movement.
Many men wore corsets to improve the fit of these long, slim waistcoats—it was quite fashionable to do so— yet she didn't think this one needed to. He was simply too tightly made, too physically fit—too big, but in a muscular way. She didn't think he would allow any excess flesh to get in the way of his superbly tailored look.
He was staring at her again. She was guilty of the same, actually, couldn't seem to help herself. Yet she knew they were being avidly watched. His two companions had been descended upon by the other women. Music had begun to play. One of the women was dancing one of their more provocative dances to entertain them.
But Anastasia was only barely aware of these things occurring in the camp, so thoroughly did the man next to her hold her attention. So she was a bit startled to finally hear his deep voice again.
"You mentioned services. I am interested in what service you, in particular, offer, pretty one."
She knew what he was expecting to hear, knew that he would be disappointed if she told him merely the truth instead, yet she wasn't going to lie to him any more than was absolutely necessary. Actually, she hoped she wouldn't have to lie to him at all, for that wasn't how she wanted their relationship to start. And she knew, suddenly, with the perfect insight that she was gifted with, that they would marry. She just wasn't at all sure yet how she was going to bring it about.
The aroma of Maria's stew was very pleasant. Anastasia stirred it for a moment as she considered what to say to the Englishman. The full truth? A partial truth?
She did not want him to think she was a sorceress with magical powers, as some Gypsies were thought to be. Magic frightened some people. Even things that seemed like magic but weren't frightened some people. She was not possessed of any kind of true magic, just a talent that seemed somewhat magical in nature because it was so accurate. The dilemma was, how to explain that to him.
Christopher had seen Gypsies before, though never this close. Large bands of them came to camp on the outskirts of London occasionally, to ply their numerous trades and entertain those Londoners daring enough to venture into their camps, but he had never gone himself. He had heard many stories, though, about them. Most not so nice.
Generally they were thought to be thieves and exotic prostitutes, but were also possessed of the legitimate skills of tinkering, horse-trading, music, and dancing. They were considered a very happy, carefree people who abhorred the thought of settling down in any one place. To keep a Gypsy from wandering was to whither his soul, or so he had heard.
This band did indeed seem harmless enough. Their camp was orderly, clean. Their music and laughter were not overly loud. They were mostly dark-skinned and very exotic looking. They were all dressed colorfully in bright skirts and kerchiefs, with pale blouses, the men wearing bright sashes. There was much flashing of cheap jewelry, in long, dangling earrings and many rings, chains, and bracelets.
The wench who had caught his interest so thoroughly seemed different from the others, though. She had the long earrings, the many bracelets and rings. Her clothes were just as colorful, her full skirt a bright yellow and blue, her short-sleeved blouse a pale yellow. She had no kerchief tying back her hair, though, which flowed in free, curly abandon down her back and over her shoulders.
It was her eyes, however, that made her so different. They were tilted at a slight, exotic slant, but were of a brilliant cobalt blue. Her skin, too, was much lighter in color, very fair, smooth as ivory.
She was not very tall. Her head would probably not even reach the top of his shoulders. She was slim of build, petite, yet very nicely shaped. Ample breasts pushed against the thin cotton of her blouse. He had seen women more beautiful, but never one as alluring as this one. He had wanted her the moment he clapped eyes on her. That in itself he found utterly amazing, since it had never happened to him before.
She hadn't answered his question yet. Watching her, enjoying doing so, he nearly forget it, until she said, "I am a healer, a seer, a diviner of dreams." Then with a grin, "You do not look sickly, Lord Englishman."
He chuckled at her. "No, I'm hardly that. Nor do I dream often enough to remember any dream in particular for you to divine. As for seeing into my future, you'll have to excuse me, pretty one, but I'm not about to throw money away on something that cannot be proven until some future date when you are long gone from here."
"A smart man." She smiled, clearly not offended. "But I don't see into the future."
"No?" He raised a golden brow at her. "Then what do you see, to be a seer?"
"I see people for what they are, and perhaps help them to see themselves in a clearer light, so that they can correct their own faults and be happier with their lot."
He was amused by such fanciful claims. "I know myself well enough."
