"What happened?" she asked, dropping to the damp ground beside Win. "Has Merripen been burned?"
"Yes, on his back." Win ripped a makeshift bandage from the hem of her own gown. "Beatrix, would you take this, please, and soak it in water?"
Without a word, Beatrix scampered to the trough at the handpump.
Win stroked Merripen's thick black hair as he rested his head on his forearms. His breath hissed unevenly through his teeth.
"Does it hurt, or is it numb?" Amelia asked.
"Hurts like the devil," he choked out.
"That's a good sign. A burn is much more serious if it's numb."
He turned his head to give her a speaking glance.
Win kept her hand on the nape of Merripen's neck as she spoke to Amelia. "He went too close to the eaves of the house. The heat from the fire caused the flashing on the shingles to melt and drip down. Some molten lead fell on his back." She glanced up as Beatrix returned with a dripping cloth. "Thank you, dear." Lifting Merripen's shirt, she laid the wet cloth over the burn, and he let out a pained growl. Losing all sense of pride or decorum, he let Win pillow his head on her lap while he shook uncontrollably.
Glancing at Leo, who was faring little better, Amelia realized Cam Rohan was right—she needed to take her family to the manor immediately, and send for a doctor.
She made no protest as Rohan and Captain Swansea came to load the assembled Hathaways into the carriage. Leo had to be lifted bodily into the vehicle, and Merripen, who was unsteady and disoriented, required help as well. Captain Swansea handled the ribbons deftly as he drove the family to Stony Cross Manor.
Upon their arrival, the Hathaways were greeted with considerable excitement and sympathy, servants running in all directions, houseguests volunteering extra clothes and personal items. Lady Westcliff and Lady St. Vincent took charge of the younger girls, while Amelia was dragged away by a pair of determined housemaids. It became clear they would not relent until she was bathed and fed and dressed.
An eternity had passed by the time the housemaids put Amelia into a fresh nightgown and a blue velvet robe. Another quarter hour crawled by as they painstakingly braided her damp hair into a neat plait behind each ear. When at last they were finished with her, Amelia thanked the maids and fled the guest room. She went to check on her siblings, starting with her brother.
A servant in the hallway directed her to Leo's room. The doctor, an elderly man with a neatly trimmed gray beard, was just leaving. He paused, bag in hand, as she asked about her brother's condition.
"All in all, Lord Ramsay is doing quite well," the doctor replied. "There is minor swelling of the throat—due to the smoke inhalation, of course—but it is mere tissue irritation rather than serious damage. His color is good, the heart is strong, and all signs are that he'll be good as new."
"Thank God. What about Merripen?"
"The Gypsy? His condition is a bit more worrisome. It's a nasty burn. But I've treated it and applied a honey dressing, which should keep the bandage from sticking as it heals. I will return tomorrow to check on his progress."
"Thank you. Sir, I don't wish to trouble you—I know the hour is late—but could you spare a moment to visit one of my sisters? She has weak lungs, and even though she wasn't exposed to the smoke, she was out in the night air?
"You're referring to Miss Winnifred."
"Yes."
"She was in the Gypsy's room. Apparently he shared your concern over your sister's health. Both of them were arguing quite strenuously over which one of them I should see first."
"Oh." A faint smile came to her lips. "Who won? Merripen, I suppose."
He smiled back at her. "No, Miss Hathaway. Your sister may have weak lungs, but she has no end of resolve." He bowed to her. "I wish you good evening. My sympathies on your misfortune."
Amelia nodded in thanks and went into Leo's room, where a lamp had been turned down low. He was lying on his side, eyes open, but he didn't spare her a glance as she approached. Sitting on the side of the mattress with care, she reached out and smoothed his matted hair.
His voice was a soft croak. "Have you come to finish me off?"
She smiled wryly. "You seem to be doing an excellent job of that all by yourself." Her hand shaped tenderly over his skull. "How did the fire start, dear?"
He looked at her then, his eyes so bloodshot they resembled two tiny coaching road maps. "I don't remember. I fell asleep. I didn't cause the fire on purpose. I hope you believe that."
"Yes." She leaned over and kissed his head as if he were a young boy. "Rest, Leo. Everything will be better in the morning."
"You always say that," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "Maybe someday it'll be true." And he fell asleep with startling quickness.
Hearing a noise at the door, Amelia looked up to see the housekeeper carrying a tray laden with brown glass bottles and bundles of dried herbs. The elderly woman was accompanied by Cam Rohan, who carried a small open kettle filled with steaming water.
Rohan had not yet washed the smoke from his clothes and hair and skin. Although he must have been tired from the night's exertions, he showed no signs of it. He took Amelia in with an all-encompassing glance, his eyes glowing like brimstone in his smudged, sweat-streaked face.
"The steam will help Lord Ramsay breathe more comfortably during the night," the housekeeper explained. She proceeded to light the candles beneath a bedside holder, onto which the kettle was placed.
As steam dispersed through the air, a strong, not unpleasant fragrance drifted to Amelia's nostrils. "What is it?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"Chamomile, thyme, and licorice," Rohan said, "along with slippery elm and horsetail leaves for the swelling in his throat."
"We've also brought mor**ine to help him sleep," the housekeeper said. "I'll leave it by the bedside, and if he awakens later?
"No," Amelia said quickly. The last thing Leo needed was unsupervised access to a large bottle of morphine. "That won't be necessary."
"Yes, miss." The housekeeper departed with a quiet murmur for her to ring if anything was needed.
Cam remained in the room, casually leaning a shoulder against one towering bedpost. He watched as Amelia went to investigate the contents of the steam kettle. She averted her gaze from his vibrant dark presence, the searching eyes, the quizzical cast of his mouth.
"You must be exhausted," she said, picking up a sprig of dried leaves. She brought the crackly fragrant herbs to her nose and sniffed experimentally. "It's very late."
"I've spent most of my life in a gaming club—by now I'm more or less nocturnal." A brief pause. "You should go to bed."
Amelia shook her head. Somewhere beneath the clamor of her pulse and the raffle of worries in her mind, there was a great ache of weariness. But any attempt to sleep would be useless—she would simply lie there and stare at the ceiling. "My head is spinning like a carousel. The thought of sleep..." She shook her head.
"Would it help," he asked gently, "to have a shoulder to cry on?"
She fought to conceal how much the question unnerved her. "Thank you, but no." Carefully she dropped the herbs into the kettle. "Crying is a waste of time."
" 'To weep is to make less the depth of grief.'"
"Is that a Romany saying?"
"Shakespeare." He studied her, seeing too much, reading what simmered beneath the forced calm. "You have friends to help you through this, Amelia. And I'm one of them."
Amelia was terrified that he might see her as an object of pity. She would avoid that at all cost. She couldn't lean on him, or anyone. If she did, she might never be able to stand on her own again. She moved away from him, around him, her hands fluttering as if to bat away any attempt to reach her. "You mustn't trouble yourself about the Hathaways. We'll manage. We always have."
"Not this time." Rohan watched her steadily. "Your brother is beyond helping anyone, including himself. Your sisters are too young, except for Winnifred. And now even Merripen is bedridden."
"I'll take care of them. I don't need help." She reached for a length of toweling draped at the foot of the bed, and folded it neatly. "You're leaving for London in the morning, aren't you? You should probably take your own advice and go to bed."
The light eyes turned flinty. "Damn it, why do you have to be so stubborn?"
"I'm not being stubborn. It's just that I don't want anything from you. And you deserve to find the freedom you've been deprived of for so long."
"Are you concerned about my freedom, or are you terrified of admitting you need someone?"
He was right—but she would rather have died than admit it. "I don't need anyone, least of all you."
His voice was no less blistering for being soft. "You don't know how easy it would be to prove you wrong." He began to reach for her, checked the movement, and looked at her as if he wanted to throttle her, kiss her, or both.
"Maybe next lifetime," she whispered, somehow managing a crooked smile. "Please go. Please, Cam."
She waited until he had left the room, and her shoulders sagged with relief.
Needing to escape the smothering confines of the house, Cam went outside. The night threaded weak moonlight through a weft of infinite darkness. He wandered to the ironstone wall that edged a bluff overlooking the river. Hoisting himself easily to the top of the wall, he sat with his feet dangling over the edge, and listened to the water and the night sounds. Smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scents of earth and forest.
Cam tried to sort through a tangle of emotions. He had never known jealousy before, but when he had seen Amelia and Christopher Frost embracing earlier, Cam had experienced a violent urge to strangle the bastard. Every instinct raged that Amelia was his, his alone to protect and comfort. But he had no rights to her.
If Frost decided to pursue her, it was best that Cam not interfere. Amelia would be better off with her own kind, rather than a half-bred Roma. Cam would be better off, too. Good God, was he actually contemplating spending the rest of his life as a gadjo, bound in domesticity?
He should leave Hampshire, he thought. Amelia would make her own decision about Frost, and Cam would follow his destiny. No compromises or sacrifices on either side. He would never be anything more to Amelia than a brief, vaguely remembered episode in her life.
Lowering his head, he scrubbed his hands through his unruly hair. His chest ached in the way it always had when he yearned for freedom. But for the first time, he wondered if he was right about what he wanted. Because it didn't seem as if the pain would be cured when he left. In fact, it threatened to become a good deal worse.
The future spread before him in a great lifeless void. Thousands of nights without Amelia. He would hold and make love to other women, but none of them would ever be the one he truly wanted. He thought of Amelia living as a spinster. Or worse, reconciling with Frost, perhaps marrying him, but always living with the knowledge that Frost had betrayed her once and might again. She deserved so much more than that. She deserved passionate, heart-scalding, overwhelming, consuming love. She deserved?Oh, hell. He was thinking too much. Just like a gadjo.
He forced himself to face the truth. The fact was, Amelia was his, whether he stayed or left, whether they walked the same path or not. They could live on opposite sides of the world, and she would still be his.
The Roma half of him had seen that from the beginning.
And it was that side of himself he would listen to.
Amelia's bed was soft and luxurious, but it might as well have been made of bare wood planks. She rolled, turned, sprawled, but she could find no comfortable position for her aching body, and no peace for her tortured brain.
The room was still and stuffy, the air turning thicker by the minute. Craving a breath of clear, cold air, she slipped from the bed, went to the window, and pushed it open. A gasp of relief escaped her as a light breeze swept over her. She closed her sore eyes, used her knuckles to rub her wet lashes.
It was strange, but with all the problems she faced, the thing that kept her from sleeping was the question of whether or not Christopher Frost had ever really loved her. She had wanted to think so, even after he had abandoned her. She had told herself that love was a luxury for most people, that Christopher's career was a difficult one, and he had been faced with an impossible choice. He had done what he'd thought best at the tune. Perhaps it had been wrong of her to expect him to choose her and damn the consequences.
To be desired above all else, to be wanted, needed, coveted?that would never happen to her.
The door opened in a well-oiled arc. She saw the shadows change, felt a presence in the room. Turning with a start, she saw Cam Rohan standing just inside the door. Her heart began to drum with furious force. He looked like something from a dream, a dark enigmatic ghost.
He approached her slowly. The closer he came, the more it seemed everything around her was unraveling, falling away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
Cam's breathing wasn't quite steady. Neither was hers. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "The Rom believe you should take the road that calls to you, and never turn back. Because you never know what adventures await." He reached for her slowly, giving her every opportunity to object. Through the cottony gauze of her nightgown, he touched the curve of her hips. He brought her close, into his hard weight.
"So we're going to take this road," he murmured, "and see where it leads."
He waited for a signal, some syllable of objection or encouragement, but she could only stare at him, transfixed and helpless.
He smoothed her hair, whispering for her not to fear him, he would take care of her, please her. His fingers found the sensitive curve of her scalp, cradling her head as he kissed her. He dragged his mouth across hers, again and again, and when her lips were open and damp, he sealed them with his.
Excitement flooded her, and she gave in to the dark pleasure, opening to the penetrating strokes of his tongue, struggling to capture the silkiness. His hands gently urged her backward until her balance collapsed. She lay on the tumbled bed as if on some pagan altar. Bending over her, Cam kissed her throat. There was a series of quick tugs at the front of her gown, and the edges of the garment parted.
She felt his urgency, the heat radiating from his body, but every movement was careful, lingering, as he reached beneath the fragile cotton and caressed her breast. Her knees drew up, her entire body arching to contain the pleasure of his touch. With a wordless sound Cam coaxed her to relax, his hand gliding from her chest to her knees. His parted lips brushed the na*ed tip of her breast, toying with the hardening bud, his tongue skimming wetly. She brought her hands to his hair, tangling her fingers in the ebony locks, trying to hold him to her. His mouth closed over her nipple, tugging lightly until she quivered and tried to roll away, unnerved by the feeling that she was being driven to the brink of some new sensation altogether.