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Satiated into drowsiness, Vangie roused to angry shouts and frightened screams. Ian leapt to his feet, cursing. He yanked on his discarded clothing, scarcely enough to be considered decent, and charged from the enclosure.
She followed suit, frantically searching for one misplaced boot in the shadowy shelter. Her hand closed on the cold steel of her dagger, and snatching the blade, she slipped it into her waistband. At last she located the errant boot, and hopping on one foot, tugged it on. She ran to catch up, darting into the clearing behind him.
Ian skidded to a halt, and she bumped into him.
Masked men on horseback stampeded through the campsite, torching tents and wagons. The horsemen brutally kicked aside the Roma that tried to stop them. Mothers scooped terrified children into their arms and ran to escape the willful destruction.
“Vangie, this way.” Ian grabbed her hand and plunged toward Yoska’s tent, shouting, “Gerard!”
In a flurry, Somersfield’s armed staff surged forth joining the enraged gypsies. Reaching Yoska’s tent, Ian dove inside. He emerged moments later, face grim and holding a sword and a pistol in his hands. He’d stuffed another pistol into his waistband, and a knife handle protruded from his boot top.
“Vangie, go.” He jerked the pistol to the side. “Hide in those trees behind Yoska’s vardo.”
She started to shake her head, but his lips thinned in warning.
“Don’t argue with me. I cannot help your people if I’m worrying about you. If I have to choose who to protect, it will be you.”
Gulping against the fear clawing at her, Vangie nodded, her loose hair whirling around her hips and shoulders.
Ian pointed to the trees again. “Go. Now.” Without waiting for a response, he swiveled toward the chaos, pistol and sword at the ready.
“Ian?”
Pivoting around, he speared her a questioning look.
“Please, be careful.” She struggled to smile. “I love you.”
His expression softened. “Aye, I love you too, my lady.” Grinning wickedly, he added, “And, we’ve not had our wedding journey yet.”
Despite the chaos reigning around the camp, a silent message passed between them. He jerked his head in the direction of the towering trees then spun and ran into the fray.
Vangie scampered to the trees, only staying long enough for him to believe she’d obeyed. If he thought she’d remain docilely hidden in the woods while he put himself in danger, he didn’t know her at all. She skirted the edge of the encampment, careful to remain obscured in the darkness beyond the fires’ glow.
She tore to Grandmother’s vardo.Puri Daj and Jasper were huddled inside, Lancelot cuddled between them. “Get outside, into the trees. They’re torching the wagons! Take your medicines, Puri Daj. We’ll have need of them this night.” Vangie crawled across them, intent on the tiny cupboard above her bed. She yanked the door open, reached inside, and retrieved a leather pouch.
“Zora,” Simone breathed, alarmed.
Vangie deftly loaded the small gun. “It’s only a precaution.” She met Grandmother’s worried eyes. “Ian’s out there. He might need me.” With that, she slipped from the wagon and into the riotous night.
Sidling along the vardo, she took stock of the situation. Only four of the assailants remained on their horses. The others had either been killed or were fighting on foot. Nicu dispatched one assailant with his blade while Besnik wrestled violently with another.
Ailsa charged to his aid. “No, you don’t,” she shrieked, laying a stout branch across his opponent’s head. The man toppled over, a nasty gash in his skull. “Besnik.” She burst into tears before throwing herself into his sturdy arms.
“Shh, pirrini,” he soothed, caressing her shoulders and back.
A few feet beyond them, Vangie spied Ian grappling with a scruffy man. The scarf intended to mask the bandit’s face had come loose and hung around his neck.
She gasped recognizing one of Sir Doyle’s men.
The man outweighed Ian by a good three stone, but Ian’s quicker reflexes gave him the advantage. He danced circles around the clumsy oaf, his sharp jabs hitting home each time.
His opponent swung his beefy hand. Ian ducked and planted a solid facer on his foe’s ruddy cheek. The man tottered, weaving unsteadily. His legs crumpled beneath him, and he sagged into a heap in the dirt. A rider charged forward with a gun pointing straight at Ian’s back.
Please, God, no.
“I-a-n!” Vangie screamed. Aiming the gun, she fired. Click. Nothing.
She threw it to the ground, stark terror ripping through her. At a dead run, she yanked the dagger from her waist then hurled it. The blade sliced through the air with lethal accuracy, landing between the man’s shoulder blades. He was dead before he toppled to the ground.
