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Vangie sat cross-legged atop a sloping wildflower-covered hill some distance from the camp. Twelve days had passed since she’d fled Somersfield; days of seeing Ian from afar. She hadn’t spoken more than a half dozen words to him since the morning he’d told her he loved her, though he’d tried to talk to her several times since. The man was obstinate and persistent if nothing else.

Being near him was painful and awkward. And heartbreaking. So she’d become adept at avoiding him. He was too perceptive, and if she spent any time in his company, he’d uncover her secret. She didn’t hate him, though Lord knew she’d tried to. Hating someone for betrayal was natural. Loving them despite their perfidy was excruciating. What would he do with the knowledge? She didn’t trust him not to hurt her further.

She scrutinized the encampment, her attention falling on Eldra posed provocatively on a rock by the corral. Vangie didn’t trust her either. For nearly a fortnight she’d watched Eldra act a shameless wagtail. The girl touched, leaned on, or draped herself all over Ian at every opportunity. Vangie was loath to admit it, but it infuriated her no end.

It was true she’d left Ian, but Eldra needn’t be blatant in her attempts to beguile him. The trull displayed her voluptuous wares so vulgarly, Vangie blushed for her. Today, everything but the tips of Eldra’s monstrous breasts bulged above her blouse. If she sneezed, the nipples would pop over the edge and give her two black eyes.

How could she be so forward? Why was Yoska allowing it? He’d never permitted such fast behavior in his daughter before. Had he washed his hands of the wanton girl? Then again, mayhap, he hoped to snare Ian as his son-in-law.

While considered divorced according to Romaniya, gypsy law, her Christian upbringing held that she remained, inarguably and forever, Ian’s wife. Unless he divorced her.

The notion didn’t bring the relief it ought to. She didn’t know which culture she wanted to honor, to be a part of anymore. She uncrossed her legs, careful not to wake the pup snoring lightly in her lap—a peace offering from Ian. Releasing a long breath, she ran a hand over his silky black-and-white speckled coat. What did she want? I don’t know. Nothing was simple anymore. Her feelings were a paradox of mixed emotions.

She returned her regard to the corral where Ian studiously ignored Eldra. He seemed totally put off by her evermore ardent efforts. That pleased Vangie enormously.

Only yesterday, from her perch on Puri Daj’s vardo steps, she’d watched him spurn the wench. Eldra threw her arms around his neck, pressing against him so tightly, a malnourished flea couldn’t have squeezed between them. He’d gripped her arms, prying them off his neck as he stepped from her. The dark scowl on his face revealed his irritation. He’d said something to Eldra and strode away.

Pouting, she’d peered after him, her arms folded across her abundant chest.

Vangie’s breath had caught as Nicu stomped to Eldra, hauling her aside and berating her. She’d been infuriated. She’d angled her chin, shook her upraised fist at him, and issuing a sharp retort, had flounced away. Poor Nicu. He and Eldra were expected to wed. It had been arranged between their families when they were children.

Vangie had chewed her lower lip. Nicu hadn’t moved after Eldra stormed off. He glared at Ian across the encampment, one hand on the knife tied at his waist. Nicu didn’t blame Ian, did he? Ian wasn’t the first man Eldra had acted like a dinli with. Nicu knew that. Faith, everyone in the encampment knew it. Unlike most Romani women, Eldra was neither chaste nor discreet.

The plump pup in Vangie’s lap stirred in its sleep, interrupting her musings. He rolled onto its back, his fat belly upward. She rubbed his smooth tummy, grinning as his hind leg twitched reflexively.

Vangie had slipped into the vardo late that first morning in camp. Her encounter with Ian left her physically and emotionally overwhelmed. If she had to smile at one more clan member, she feared she’d scream like a dinilo manishi, crazy woman. She wanted nothing more than to climb beneath a quilt, bury her head, and sleep—for a month.

The puppy, a blue ribbon tied around its chubby neck, had been inside when she opened the door. The little darling lay in the middle of her bed, along with a telling puddle. She knew full well how the dog came to be in Puri Daj’s wagon. A puppy was by no means sufficient to mend the chasm between her and Ian, but her heart was oddly touched by his boyish gesture. And strangely enough, the pup had helped to ease her grief.

Desperate to be rid of the mongrels, the ancient crone, Dika, had been begging the members of the gypsy troupe to take them. The next afternoon when Vangie walked by the old woman’s fire with the pup in her arms, Dika had winked. “His lordship paid five pounds for him,” she cackled, quite pleased with herself.

“Five pounds? Dika, that was robbery!”

She nodded her diklos-covered head and rubbed her gnarled hands together in glee. “I told him, ‘Ze jakkle is a rum bugher, a blessed dog. He will bring to you kushti bok.’” She grinned, exposing a missing front tooth.

“For shame, Dika,” Vangie said, chuckling. “He’s a common mongrel. No more a good luck dog than you’re a duchess.”

Gazing at the puppy, Vangie smiled at the memory. Dika was cunning, and apparently, Ian was gullible at times. The puppy awoke and promptly set to chewing on Vangie’s fingers. She glanced up as a shadow fell across her lap.

Leading Pericles, Ian climbed the hill.

At his approach she stilled, flicking her gaze to the saddled stallion then to Ian. Was he leaving at last? Her stomach sank and sorrow swathed her. Well, wasn’t that what she’d told him to do? Truthfully, he’d stayed much longer than she’d expected. Why didn’t the knowledge bring her relief, but instead felt as if a millstone had been tied to her already burdened heart?

“Thank you, for the puppy.”

He was leaving, and she was thanking him for the puppy? What was she thinking?

Ian tilted his head. Was he waiting for her to go on? When she didn’t, he sighed. “Have you named him?”

Vangie nodded, while attempting to save the end of her scarf from the pup’s sharp teeth. “Lancelot.” She flushed hot. Would Ian recognize the analogy to a knight in shining armor, or worse yet, Lancelot, both the greatest and worst of knights?

The puppy growled playfully as he tugged at her scarf. Little beast.

Ian said nothing, though his mouth twitched upward. Mortified, Vangie almost groaned aloud. Why had she told him that? Why hadn’t she named the dratted dog Herbert, or Archibald, or…or…Zebulon?

“Vangie, I must return to Somersfield.”

“I know.” Her eyes once again downcast, she clenched her hands.