Page 11

That had definitely been an irregular experience. Eerie too.

Vadoma spoke with such conviction and authority. It was difficult to dismiss her prophecy as mystical twaddle. Though Stan didn’t hold with such fustian rubbish as fortune telling and palm reading, the old gypsy’s words kept running through his mind.

“What you desire is not yours to take. It must be given freely.” And “Be careful that your dreams do not destroy another’s.”

He’d been watching Ophelia and had seen the color leech from her face. The gypsy’s words had disconcerted her. As always, however, she recovered quickly and, in a thrice, had smoothed her expression into polite indifference.

“Shall we find my sister?” Ophelia asked as she stood and gazed around the bustling encampment.

Across the way, a man juggled four wicked-looking knives before a rapt audience.

A delicious aroma wafted past, and Stan’s stomach growled in appreciation.

He’d skipped breakfast for an early morning meeting and forgone lunch to finish his work for the day so that he could join the other privileged citizens touring the travellers’ encampment today.

Ophelia raised her dainty nose and sniffed. “My goodness. Something smells scrumptious.” She half-turned and sniffed again. “There. Where that group of people is watching that woman fry something.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “I’m starving. I rushed my breakfast.”

Few ladies admitted to a hearty appetite. Instead, most picked at their food when eating in public.

Stan chuckled as he fell into place beside her. “I’m rather hungry myself.”

In short order, they both held a warm flatbread.

Grinning with pride, the Romani woman encouraged them to take a bite. “It is called manriklo,” she said in a melodic contralto. “Eat. Eat.”

She gestured to her mouth with her fingertips.

Stan dutifully took a bite at the same time Ophelia did.

Her eyes rounded in delight, and she took a bigger bite.

“Umm, it’s amazing.” She closed her eyes just before she flicked her tongue out to catch a crumb on the plump pillow of her lower lip. “Mmm,” she practically moaned.

Stan gritted his teeth against the rush of desire that flooded his groin at her innocent actions.

He shoved half the bread into his mouth, nearly choking himself. As he’d hoped, his carnal urges evaporated. After all, breathing was more important than lusting after a beautiful woman.

Wasn’t it?

The savory toasted circle contained herbs and cheese, and Stan finished his in three bites. He paid for two more.

“Thank you,” he said to the gypsy, who had already turned her attention to the next customer.

Balancing the warm bread on his handkerchief, he took Ophelia’s elbow.

Chewing, she gave him a side-eyed glance but didn’t object as he led her to a stand of trees near the camp’s perimeter. It was quieter here, providing an ideal backdrop to finish their snack and still observe the many fascinating performers. And as they were in full view of everyone, he needn’t worry about unsavory conjectures.

Or perhaps, to be more accurate, no more than the usual speculative on dit that inevitably surrounded an unmarried duke.

An angry bird scolded them from overhead. Stan tipped his head upward but couldn’t spy the outraged creature amongst the oaks’ branches. Or the other nearby trees, either. Perhaps it was farther back in the thicker woods behind them.

Ophelia finished her bread and wiped her mouth with a lacy scrap of cloth. “That was utterly fabulous.”

“Here.” Stan offered her another. “Be careful. It’s still quite warm.”

Giving him a cheeky grin, she accepted the manriklo and leaned her slender back against an oak. “I won’t have any appetite for dinner, but these are simply too delectable. I wonder if Maxwell’s cook might be persuaded to make them?” She eyed the one in her hand. “I’d like to try one with marmalade or raspberry preserves, but perhaps without the herbs and cheese.”

Bracing one foot on a raised root, Stan leaned a shoulder against the same tree, far nearer to Ophelia than was proper. So much for not stirring gossip.