The Tin Rose Read online

  His head pounded and spun, and a ringing had started in his ears. The bitter tea had helped but did nothing to stop the spread of unsettling numbness. How much longer before the end came?

  “We did,” Emily replied, raining kisses down upon his face. A kind of happiness settled over him, one that only came in the presence of his soul mate. Everything he did was for her.

  He pried his eyes open. His Puri daj bent over them both, her face framed by a red-streaked and darkening sky.

  “A broken wheel,” she announced, already gathering materials for a campfire. “Vardos are not built for speed. All is well?”

  “Yes.” But for the poison coursing through his blood vessels.

  His grandmother fixed a disapproving stare upon Emily. “A woman as smart as you ought to know better.” She clucked her tongue. “Turning at such velocity. His heart?”

  Emily, her ear already pressed to his chest, frowned. “Stronger, but irregular. And his breathing is too shallow.”

  “You remember the belladonna plant, the shape of its leaves?”

  “I do.”

  “Ten leaves. Old growth. We’ve not time for grinding roots or steeping tinctures. Tea must suffice. Place your feet upon that path,” her gnarled finger pointed. “Hasten, child.”

  With a quick squeeze of his hand, she was off. Wind whipped her skirts about her ankles and tore more strands of dark hair from the once-intricate plaits of her upswept hair. She disappeared into the undergrowth that flourished in the notches and clefts cut into the face of the great white cliffs, in search of another poison.

  One poison to curse, another to cure.

  Brave of him, to marry such a woman, a woman who knew twenty ways to kill him at breakfast without leaving the slightest of traces. Stupid of him to have ignored Rayka’s increasingly flagrant attempts to draw his attention to her as a woman.

  Though it didn’t excuse poisoning a man, perhaps he could have done better. He’d thought his growing relationship with Emily obvious enough that Rayka would turn her attentions elsewhere. But she’d held expectations for years, then watched them crumble in a matter of months. Perhaps, if he’d spoken to her father… or even directly to her, this could have been avoided.

  He’d vastly underestimated her rage.

  A horrible mistake on his part.

  He crawled to a nearby tree—a small, gnarled one that had managed to endure against the channel winds—and propped himself against it.

  Rain began to patter softly upon the leaves above him, upon the field, hindering—but not halting—his grandmother’s attempts to start a fire. He struggled to assist, but she waved away his miserable efforts with a flick of her hand and a cluck of her tongue. Soon the flames of a small, but hot, fire licked at the underside of a tea kettle. A tin cup waited by its side. All in readiness.

  Muscles twitched and pain darted to and fro, unable to settle in one limb for more than a few passing moments, as he half-sprawled upon the ground. Each movement hurt, as if his joints had swollen to twice their size.

  Overhead, lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. And the skies opened, pouring sheets of rain down upon him.

  Making matters worse, an alarming hallucination gripped him. He could swear a clockwork horse galloped—splashing through chalky mud-puddles forming upon the road—in their direction. One he himself had built. One of a matching pair he’d sold to the duke for a newly purchased coach. Perhaps it was the fading light. He brushed a stream of water from his eyes and blinked, but it was still there, only closer. A rider upon its back. A rider wearing the skirts of a gypsy.

  Pushing him to the brink of death was not enough? Was she now here to collect his soul? He half expected to see a silver scythe materialize in her hands. Though not skeletal, her face was a twisted mask of fury.

  He muttered a curse and called to his grandmother. “Rayka approaches on horseback. Warn Emily.”

  But his clockwork horses were solid, fast beasts, and his grandmother had barely taken five steps toward the cliff when Rayka slid from its back, approaching with narrowed eyes.

  “Always playing the hero.” She glanced at the bandages wound about his hand and sneered. “Snatched the vines away before they twined about your grandmother’s throat?” Her lip curled. “And yet you still live. How inconvenient.”

  A silver knife flashed in her hand. Not the scythe he’d imagined, but near enough. His good hand groped upon the ground for a rock, a stick—anything—but turned up only a handful of gray mud, quickly dissolved by the rain.

  His Puri daj hissed.

  “I’m sorry,” he offered, knowing it was far too little and far too late. “I should have spoken with you earlier.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Luca Hearn.” Her face contorted with pain, even as her eyes hardened. “I lost you long ago. But I shaped my entire life around yours, and I will have justice. I intended for Nadya to die, but either way,” she shrugged, “Lady Emily loses one of her loves.”

  Lightning tore through the sky, and thunder boomed a warning as Emily frantically searched through the tangle of weeds growing at the cliff’s edge. Too soon to hope for its distinctive bell-shaped blooms, she hunted for its large leaves, up to ten inches in length and growing in pairs on either side of the stem. Nadya insisted they grew along this path, and so they must, but the vanishing light—not to mention the lashing wind and rain—made the task of finding the shrub next to impossible. She ought to have brought the lantern.

  A gust of wind threw her off balance, and Emily fell to her knees in a tangle of sodden skirts. Her arms and legs trembled—from cold, fear and a growing sense of despair—as she stared at the dark edge of the cliff, where she’d almost placed her foot. Somehow she’d strayed from the path, almost stumbling to her death.

  Eyes closed, she dragged in a shuddering breath. Too close.

  Deadly nightshade struck her as a most fitting name. But there was no time for anxious contemplation, Luca needed her. Yanking up the muddy hem of her skirt, she pushed herself to her feet and lurched back onto the path.

  Thrusting aside taller growth, she searched for the plant’s tell-tale leaves. One of the pair would be noticeably smaller. There. She squinted, leaning closer. Was this it?

  It was!

  With a howl a triumph, she ripped several large leaves from the base of the plant and turned on her heel, swiftly retracing the path back to the plateau.

  Short of breath from racing back up the escarpment and soaked to the skin from the downpour, Emily nearly ran over Nadya, who stood, wide-eyed and panicked at the top of the rough pathway.

  “Rayka,” Nadya gasped, flapping a hand in warning. “Be careful.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  A few feet away, beneath the poor shelter of a scraggy tree, Luca struggled to stand, but the numbness in his limbs defeated him, and he sagged. Rayka advanced upon him, her eyes two chips of black ice. A knife glinted in her hand.

  A knife!

  Slipping the handful of leaves she had collected into Nadya’s trembling fingers, Emily tipped her head in the direction of the tea kettle that hung over a small campfire and marched forward. “Make the tea. I’ll distract her.”

  Rayka wasn’t going to lay another finger on her husband, let alone a blade. Enough damage had been done. She charged forward against every ounce of common sense, a possessiveness stirring within her, a protectiveness unlike anything she’d ever felt before. What right did Rayka have to dictate who Luca chose to spend his life with?

  His eyes grew wide as Emily stormed forward.

  “You!” Emily yelled, striking Rayka’s arm with a closed fist. The woman staggered back a few steps away from Luca, but she didn’t drop the knife. Had anger fused the woman’s fist with the hilt? A fiery heat raced through her veins. “Have you come to finish him off? Is your heart a lump of black coal, attempting to murder one of your own people? A man you professed to love, a woman you ought to revere.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nadya drop a fe
w leaves into a tin cup and reach for the boiling water; she would see him sipping tea the moment it would not scald her grandson’s lips. This Emily had to trust. With Rayka’s murderous gaze upon her—and the sharp blade still in her hand, she could not afford to look away again.

  Rayka’s nostrils flared.

  “Ladies.” Luca’s voice attempted to insert a measure of sanity into their confrontation, but it was too late.

  “Love? Ha!” Rayka spat at her feet. “That withered and died on the vine the very day you inserted yourself into his life. If you want to blame someone for his plight, blame yourself.” Loathing slid from her eyes and snaked its way across the ground. “If you’d stayed in the manor house where you belong, none of this would have happened.”

  Stay where you belong. Too many times, she’d heard those words spoken. All societies were fond of pigeonholes, even that of the Roma, but tonight she had finally broken with tradition and followed her heart. She wasn’t going back. “I belong at Luca’s side. In Nadya’s vardo as her apprentice. With the Roma as one of their healers.”

  “You do not!” Rayka lunged. Emily threw up her hands, expecting to feel the sting of sharp steel. Instead, fingernails gouged grooves into her neck. A tug, a snap, and for a moment the gypsy held aloft that which she most coveted. “You went too far when you accepted this necklace.”

  Emily raised her voice to be heard over the pounding rain. “We hid nothing.” She was afraid to turn her head to see if Luca sipped at the belladonna tea. “Our engagement could not have come as a surprise to you.” Deliberately, Emily softened her voice in hopes that reason would penetrate the haze of resentment that enveloped Rayka. “Please, take the horse and head north to join the others.” Where—if Luca did not survive—she would see justice done.

  “It was supposed to be a passing fancy.” Rayka sliced the knife through the air as if she could sever the bond that tied Luca to Emily. “An affair. A well-born lady overstepping boundaries, shocked and horrified to find her lover interested only in—as your people phrase it—sowing his wild oats. Not marriage, and certainly not to breed.”

  Emily flinched at her harsh words. “Instead we fell in love,” she countered. “Love is not something you can force. We’ve committed to sharing our lives.” Pressing a hand to her stomach, she stepped forward. “Already, our love has sparked a new life. Luca will never be yours.”

  Rayka’s eyes flashed wide, then narrowed to mere slits. “No, that cannot be.” With a snarl, she threw the coin necklace into the mud and charged.

  “Stop!” Luca yelled, his voice all but lost to the wind.

  Emily turned and bolted into the pelting rain, leading Rayka away from the campfire, following the path that ran alongside the cliff where, ten feet to her left, it dropped sharply away to the sea. With a howl of indignation, Rayka followed.

  A bolt of lightning lit the sky, and Emily skidded to a sudden stop. Before her, the path came to an abrupt end at the edge of the cliff. She spun, turning toward the field of barley grass, but too late. Swift on her feet, Rayka’s arm stretched out, her clawed fingers digging into the tattered remains of Emily’s braided coiffure and yanking her head backward.

  Cold, sharp steel pressed against her neck.

  “For years, he was mine. Then you.” Rayka hissed into her ear. “And now a child? No. Unacceptable. If I can’t have him, then neither will you.” Twisting her head, yanking at her hair, she forced Emily toward the cliff.

  “Please,” Emily begged, trying to wrench free. “Don’t do this.”

  “A few more steps and this will all be behind you.” Hand fisted in her hair, Rayka shoved her forward—step by step—to the very edge.

  “No!” Luca cried. “Stop. I renounce her.”

  Rayka gasped in disbelief. “What?” Slowly, carefully, and without releasing her hostage, she turned Emily about, dagger still pressed to her throat, until they both faced Luca.

  Who stood on the path with shaky legs. Rain-soaked and pale with the effort it must have taken to follow them, his gaze darted toward the cliff and back. One wrong move and they could easily topple to their deaths.

  “Earlier this evening, by the fire,” he began, giving Rayka a small smile and refusing to meet Emily’s eyes. Still, she noted his clenched fingers, his fists pressed tightly against his thighs. Physical strength might be lost to him, but he would do all he could to save her with his words. “You were right. I was having second thoughts about stealing away a lady of the ton.”

  Rayka’s next words held a note of challenge. “But she carries your child.”

  A shoulder lifted, as if Emily was expendable. “Let the duke find her a blue-blooded husband, one of her own status.” Face set with determination, Luca lifted his good hand, crooking his outstretched fingers. “Leave her. Come to me. For a dowry such as Lady Emily possesses, her father is certain to find a gentleman willing to claim the child as his own. Only let her live so that I will not die hanging at the end of a rope.”

  “Is this a trick?” Rayka asked, suspicious. But the blade dropped away, and her fingers loosened.

  “No.” Luca shook his head. “Our engagement was a mistake. Lady Emily belongs in a manor house, not a vardo. I only needed her to come to me so that I might retrieve the necklace.” He lifted his chin, jerking it backward, back toward the campfire where the silver coins lay in a nearby mud puddle. “So that I might give it to you. Had you only waited a few days longer, even now my father would be discussing your bride price.”

  “Do you vow your words are true?” Suspicion and hope mingled uneasily together in Rayka’s voice.

  “I do,” Luca replied, calm and unwavering. “It won’t be the first time a gypsy child is raised in another man’s nest.”

  Though Emily knew such faithless words to be false, he spoke them so convincingly that a lump of anguish formed in her throat as rain streaming into her eyes blinded her.

  “Very well.” With a hard shove, Rayka pushed her aside.

  Emily stumbled, her foot caught in the tangle of plants that grew at the cliff’s edge. She fell hard upon her stomach, her nose mere inches from its edge. Beneath her palms, the ground shifted. Weakened by the storm?

  “Luca!” she yelled. “The cliff! It’s about to collapse!” Swallowing her terror, she rolled over and pulled herself onto hands and knees. With the scent of earth and mud clogging her nostrils, she clutched at stems and vines in the desperate hope that their roots might save her.

  “Emily!” Luca yelled, stumbling in her direction.

  “No!” Rayka screamed, her face red with fury. “You are mine!” But as thunder boomed and lightning flashed through the gray sky, a sliver of rain-soaked earth beneath her feet gave way. Arms flung wide, she fell, her scream of outrage lost to the howl of the wind and the angry waves that crashed upon the rocks below.

  The tremor spread across the ground. Beneath her own knees the earth shifted and began to crumble, as she scrambled frantically through the vines toward the path. But the rift traveled faster. Beneath her toes, there was nothing but air.

  “Emily!” Luca dove, channeling every last scrap of control left to him into reaching with his left arm, wrapping it about Emily’s waist, rolling—over and over—away from the blackness that had opened beneath her feet.

  Finally, at a safe distance, they stopped.

  “Did she…?” Emily choked, unable to finish the thought aloud.

  Fall to her death? He jerked a nod. “Yes.”

  He pulled her against his chest and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Silent, they clung to each other, absorbing the enormity of the situation as their hearts pounded and lungs heaved.

  The belladonna poison must have worked. Or perhaps the wolfsbane had finally run its course.

  His Puri daj staggered over to them in the dwindling rain, hand pressed to her mouth. Assured of their safety, her eyes lifted, staring out at the horizon.

  Emily’s next words came on a whisper. “I know you did not mean—”


  “Never doubt my love for you.” A convincing lie had been the best he could manage. “You are the only woman I want to marry, and I would die a slow death if you were to abandon me to raise our child in another man’s home.”

  “Good,” Emily said, tucking her head beneath his chin and wrapping her arms about his waist. “Because I refuse to leave. Now hush, and let me listen to your heart.”

  A long moment of silence passed while Emily listened.

  “Well, is it stronger now?” his grandmother pressed.

  His wife lifted her head and smiled, her bright blue eyes shining with tears of happiness. “It is.”

  Epilogue

  Days later and well north of The White Cliffs of Dover, Luca traced the soft, bare curves of his bride’s form with his rough palm.

  Though it had not been necessary, that very night he and Emily had joined hands as bride and groom before family and friends, promising each other their loyalty. Bread with salt had been exchanged, eaten and then a feast—small, out of respect for Rayka’s family—had begun.

  Amidst giggles and knowing looks, he’d walked—hand in hand with his blushing bride—away from the gathering, slipping into a domed tent raised at the edge of the campsite for their private use as newlyweds.

  Alone at last, they had put their thick feather mattress to immediate and repeated use.

  Temporarily satiated, he rolled away from her soft, warm form.

  “Luca…” she whispered, reaching out an arm to draw him back.

  “In a minute. I have something for you.” He stood and padded to the far side of the tent.

  Emily sat as he placed a carved, wooden box upon the ground before her and opened it.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. Had he made a mistake? He didn’t wish to mar their evening but…

  Emily lifted the red rose—one of many tin flowers colored with various patinas and arranged within a polished silver vase. “I thought—”