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At the vardo, Yoska indicated a stool with a wave of his hand. “Please, have a seat, my lord.” He waited until Ian was seated then claimed another stool. “Eldra, bring lavina.”

A stunning young woman leaned from the wagon and smiled seductively. The loose neckline of her canary-colored blouse gaped, exposing her heavy, swinging breasts. One of the gypsies—Nicu?—frowned at her blatant display before lifting impassive eyes to Ian.

“Aue, Dai, at once,” she murmured in a husky, accented voice.

The woman Ian had noticed upon first entering the clearing approached. Though middle-aged, her hair threaded with silver, she was still remarkably beautiful. She greeted him in flawless English. “I am Simone BašavelCaruthers, my lord. Zora’s grandmother.”

He rose and swept her a formal bow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madam Caruthers. Vangie speaks of you often.”

Madam Caruthers angled her head, and he met her fathomless, penetrating gaze. Why did he feel like she measured him? Weighing him against something unsaid?

Eldra descended the wagon’s steps, balancing a jug and wooden mugs on a tray. She sashayed the few steps to the men and handed each a mug. Tugging the stopper from the jug, she filled the cups, leaving Ian’s until the last. Bent over him, she offered another tantalizing view of her full breasts. She smiled a blatant invitation as she poured his dram.

Ian kept his gaze trained on the vardo behind her, very aware of the five pairs of eyes assessing him. Eldra’s bosom was mere inches from his nose, her heavy, sultry perfume filling his nostrils. He angled away from her and took a healthy quaff of the beer.

Madam Caruthers said something in Romanese, and Eldra straightened abruptly. A pout on her full lips, she glared at the older woman. With a huff and a shrug of her bare shoulders, she strutted away, swinging her curvy hips. She joined a group of giggling women. They kept sending sidelong glances in Ian’s direction.

Surely they knew he was married?

He met Madam Caruthers’ gaze. “I assume my wife is in your wagon?”

Ailsa bounded across the clearing. Barely dipping Ian a hasty half-curtsy, she panted, “Madam, my lady asks for you. She’s in an awful way. It’s not her bruised ribs or one of her megrimseither.”

“It’s as I feared.” Madame Caruthers closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “May God be merciful.” Opening them once more, she sent Ian an indecipherable look before she hurried to her wagon then nimbly climbed inside.

What was wrong with Vangie?

He directed his attention back to the quartet. They regarded him with hooded eyes. Worry niggled unrelentingly.

“Gentlemen, I shan’t be kept from my wife any longer.” He set his cup aside before striding purposefully in the direction of Madam Caruthers’ vardo.

No one tried to stop him, and he gave a silent thanks. A brawl wouldn’t endear him to Vangie’s family and clan, but he would not be deterred again. He slowed his steps as he neared the wagon. Just how did one go about seeking admittance to this miniature home on wheels?

Yoska appeared by his side, and Ian suppressed a start of surprise.

“You bid permission to enter, though they’ll not likely grant it just yet,” he said.

Could all Roma read minds? Ian was beginning to think so. It was uncanny and unnerving. He traveled the remaining few steps to the vardo. He could hear rustling around inside. Was that a woman softly weeping? Vangie?

“Madam Caruthers?” He spoke quietly, feeling irrationally uncertain.

Several moments passed before the door finally opened, and Ailsa poked her tousled head out.

“My wife?”

“Um, yer lordship, I’m to bid you—” She slid her gaze over her shoulder, then sucked in a bracing breath before forging on. “You need to cool your heels and rest your arse over yonder ’till the princess bids you come.” The maid slanted her head at a grove of trees behind the wagon and shut the door in his face with a firm thud.

Rest my arse?

Princess?