Cam 's amusement faded as he saw Merripen's face, detached save for a slight frown. For Cam it would have been a joy and a relief to encounter someone from his past. For Merripen, the experience was pure misery. But he bore it with a stoic endurance that touched Cam. And Cam discovered that he didn't like to see Merripen being made so vulnerable.
After glancing at the mark of the nightmare horse, Shuri moved away from Merripen and motioned for him to dress himself. "Who is this man?" she asked, nodding in Cam 's direction.
"One of my kumpania," Merripen muttered. Kumpa-nia was a word used to describe a clan, a group united though not necessarily by family ties. Pulling his clothes back on, Merripen asked brusquely, "What happened to the tribe. Shuri? Where is the rom baro?”
"In the ground," the woman said, with a pointed lack of respect for her husband. "And the tribe is scattered. After the tribe saw what he did to you, Kev… making us leave you for dead… it all went bad after that. No one wanted to follow him. The gadjos finally hanged him, when he was caught making wafodu luvvu."
"What is that?" Cam asked, unable to follow her accent.
"Counterfeit money," Merripen said.
"Before that," Shuri continued, "the rom baro had tried to make some of the young boys into asharibe, to earn coins at fairs and in the London streets. But none of them could fight like you, and their parents would only let the rom baro go so far with them." Her shrewd dark eyes turned in Cam 's direction. "The rom baro called Kev his fighting dog," she said. "But the dogs were treated better than he was."
"Shuri-," Merripen muttered, scowling. "He doesn't need to know-"
"My husband wanted Kev to die," she continued, "but even the rom baro wouldn't dare to kill him outright. So he starved the boy and put him in too many fights, and gave him no bandages or salve for his wounds. He was never given a blanket, only a bed of straw. We used to sneak food and medicine to him when the rom baro wasn't looking. But there was no one to defend him, poor boy." Her gaze turned chiding as she spoke to Merripen directly. "And it wasn't easy to help you, when you would do nothing but snarl and snap. Never a word of thanks, not even a smile."
Merripen was silent, his face averted as he finished fastening the last of his waistcoat buttons.
Cam found himself thinking it was a good thing the rom baro was already dead. Because he was feeling a powerful urge to hunt the bastard down and kill him. And Cam didn't like Shuri's criticism of Merripen. Not that Merripen had ever been a model of charm… but after he had been raised in such a merciless environment, it was a bloody miracle that he was able to live like a normal man.
The Hathaways had done more than save Merripen's life. They had saved his soul as well.
"Why did your husband bear Merripen such hatred?" Cam asked softly.
"The rom baro hated all things gadjo. He used to say that if any of the tribe ever went with one of the gadje, he would kill them."
Merripen looked at her sharply. "But I'm Romany."
"You're poshram, Kev. Half gadjo." She smiled at his open astonishment. "You never suspected? You have the look of a gadjo, you know. That narrow nose. The shape of your jaw."
Merripen shook his head, speechless at the revelation.
"Holy hell," Cam whispered.
"Your mother married a gadjo, Kev," Shuri continued. "The tattoo you bear is the mark of his family. But your father left her, as gadjos tend to do. And after we thought you died, the rom baro said, 'Now there's only one.'"
"Only one what?" Cam managed to ask.
"Brother." Shuri moved to stir the contents of the fire pan, sending a brighter glow through the tent. "Kev had a younger brother."
Emotion flooded Cam. He felt a dazzling change in all his awareness, a new inflection in every thought. After he had spent all his life believing himself to be alone, here was someone who shared his blood. A true brother. Cam stared at Merripen, watching the realization dawn in the coffee-dark eyes. Cam didn't think the news would be as welcome to Merripen as it was to him, but he didn't give a damn.
"The grandmother took care of both children for a while," Shuri continued. "But then the grandmother had cause to think the gadjos might come and take them. Perhaps even kill them. So she kept one boy, while Kev was sent to our tribe into the care of his Uncle Pov, the rom baro. I'm sure the grandmother didn't suspect how the rom baro would abuse him, or she never would have done it."
Shuri glanced at Merripen. "She probably thought that since Pov was a strong man, he would do a good job of protecting you. But he thought of you as an abomination, being half-" She stopped with a gasp as Cam shoved up his coat and shirtsleeve, and showed his forearm to her. The pooka tattoo stood out in dark, inky relief against his skin.
"I'm his brother," Cam said, his voice slightly hoarse.
Shuri's gaze moved from one man's face to the other. "Yes, I see," she eventually murmured. "Not a close likeness, but it is there." A curious smile touched her lips. "Devlesa avilan. It is God who brought you together."
Whatever Merripen's opinion was of who or what had brought them together, he didn't share it. Instead he asked tersely, "Do you know our father's name?"
Shuri looked regretful. "The rom baro never mentioned it. I'm sorry."
"No, you've helped quite a lot," Cam said. "Do you know anything about why the gadjos might have wanted to-"
"Mami," came the boy's voice from outside. "Chorodies are coming."
"They want the horses," Merripen said, rising swiftly to his feet. He pressed a few coins into Shuri's hand. "Luck and good health," he said.
"Kushti bok," she replied, returning the sentiment.
Cam and Merripen hurried outside the tent. Three Chorodies were approaching. With their matted hair, filthy complexions, rotted mouths, and a stench that preceded them well before their arrival, they seemed more like animals than men. A few curious Roma watched from a safe distance. It was clear there would be no help from that quarter.
"Well," Cam said beneath his breath, "this should be entertaining."
"Chorodies like knives," Merripen said. "But they don't know how to use them. Leave this to me."
"Go right ahead," Cam said agreeably.
One of the Chorodies spoke in a dialect Cam couldn't understand. But he gestured to Cam 's horse, Pooka, who eyed them nervously and shuffled his feet.
"Like hell," Cam muttered.
Merripen replied to the man with a handful of equally incomprehensible words. As he had predicted, the Chorodie reached behind his back and produced a jagged knife. Merripen appeared relaxed, but his fingers flexed, and Cam saw the way his posture altered in subtle readiness for attack.
The Chorodie lunged forward with a harsh cry, aiming for the mid-to-lower torso. But Merripen turned in a nimble sidestep. With impressive speed and dexterity, he grabbed the attacking arm. He jerked the Chorodie off-balance, using his own momentum against him. Before another heartbeat had passed, Merripen had flipped his opponent to the ground, twisting the bastard's arm in the process. An audible fracture caused all of them, even Cam, to flinch. The Chorodie howled in agony. Prying the knife from the man's limp hand, Merripen tossed it to Cam, who caught it reflexively.
Merripen glanced at the remaining two Chorodies. "Who's next?" he asked coldly.
Although the words were spoken in English, the creatures appeared to understand his meaning. They fled without a backward glance, leaving their injured companion to drag himself away with loud groans.
"Very nice,phral" Cam said in admiration.
"We're leaving," Merripen informed him curtly. "Before more of them come."
"Let's go to a tavern," Cam said. "I need a drink."
Merripen mounted his bay without a word. For once, it seemed, Merripen and Cam were in agreement.
Taverns were often described as the busy man's recreation, the idle man's business, and the melancholy man's sanctuary. The Hell and Bucket, located in the more disreputable environs of London, could also have been called the criminal's covert and the drunkard's haven. It suited Cam and Kev's purposes quite well, being a place that would serve two Roma without blinking an eye. The ale was good quality, twelve-bushel strength, and although the barmaids were surly, they did an adequate job of keeping the tankard full and the floor swept.
Cam and Kev sat at a small table, lit by a turnip that had been carved into a candleholder, with tallow runneling over its purple-tinged sides. Kev drank half a tankard without stopping and set the vessel down. He rarely drank anything except wine, and that in moderation. He didn't like the loss of control that came with drinking.
Cam, however, drained his own tankard. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed Kev with a slight smile. "I've always been amused by your inability to hold your liquor," Cam remarked. "A Rom your size should be able to drink a quarter barrel to the pitching. But now to discover that you're half-Irish as well… it's inexcusable, phral. We'll have to work on your drinking skills."
"We're not going to tell this to anyone," Kev told him grimly.
"About the fact that we're brothers?" Cam seemed to enjoy Kev's visible wince. "It's not so bad, being half gadjo" he told Kev kindly, and snickered at his expression. "It certainly explains why both of us have found a stopping place, while most Roma choose to wander forever. It's the Irish in us that-"
"Not… one… word," Kev said. "Not even to the family."
Cam sobered a little. "I don't keep secrets from my wife.",
"Not even for her safety?"
Cam appeared to think that over, gazing through one of the narrow windows of the tavern. The streets thronged with costermongers, the wheels of their barrows rattling over the cobblestones. Their cries rose thick in the air as they tried to interest customers in bonnet boxes, toys, lucifer matches, umbrellas, and brooms. On the opposite side of the street, a butcher-shop window gleamed crimson and white with freshly cut meat.
"You think our father's family might still want to kill us?" Cam asked.
"It's possible."
Absently Cam rubbed over his own sleeve, over the place where the pooka mark was located. "You realize that none of this: the tattoos, the secrets, splitting us apart, giving us different names, would have happened unless our father was a man of some worth. Because otherwise, the gadjos wouldn't give a damn about a pair of half-breed children. I wonder why he left our mother? I wonder-"
"I don't give a damn."
"I'm going to do a new search of parish birth records. Perhaps our father-"
"Don't. Let it lie."
"Let it lie?" Cam gave him an incredulous glance. "Do you actually want to ignore what we found out today? Ignore the kinship between us?"
"Yes."
Shaking his head slowly, Cam turned one of the gold rings on his fingers. "After today, Brother, I understand much more about you. The way you-"
"Don't call me that."
"I imagine being raised like a pit animal doesn't inspire many fond feelings for the human race. I'm sorry that you were the unlucky one, being sent to our uncle. But you can't let that stop you from leading a full life now. From finding out who you are."
"Finding out who I am won't get me what I want. Nothing will. So there's no point in it."
"What is it you want?" Cam asked softly.
Clamping his mouth shut, Kev glared at Cam.
"You can't even bring yourself to say it?" Cam prodded. When Kev remained obstinately silent, Cam reached over for his tankard. "Are you going to finish this?"
"No."
Cam drank the ale in a few expedient gulps. "You know," he remarked wryly, "it was a lot easier managing a club full of drunkards, gamblers, and assorted criminals than it is to deal with you and the Hathaways." He set the tankard down and waited a moment before asking quietly, "Did you suspect anything? Did you think the tie between us might be this close?"
"No."
"I think I did, deep down. I always knew I wasn't supposed to be alone."
Kev gave him a dour look. "This changes nothing. I'm not your family. There is no tie between us."
"Blood counts for something," Cam replied affably. "And since the rest of my tribe has disappeared, you're all I've got, phral. Just try and get rid of me."
Chapter Eleven
Win descended the main staircase of the hotel while one of the Hathaways' footmen, Charles, followed closely. "Careful, Miss Hathaway," he cautioned. "One slip and you could break your neck on these stairs."
"Thank you, Charles," she said without moderating her speed. "But there's no need to worry." She was quite adept at stairs, having gone up and down long staircases at the clinic in France as part of her daily exercise. "I should warn you, Charles, that I will proceed at a vigorous pace."
"Yes, miss," he said, sounding disgruntled. Charles was somewhat stout, and not fond of walking. Although he was getting on in years, the Hathaways were loath to dismiss him before he wished to retire.
Win bit back a smile. "Just to Hyde Park and back, Charles."
As they neared the entrance to the hotel, Win saw a tall, dark form moving through the lobby. It was Merripen, looking moody and distracted as he walked with his gaze focused downward. She couldn't suppress the flutters of pleasure that went through her at the sight of him, the handsome, bad-tempered beast. He approached the stairs, glancing upward, and his expression changed as he saw her. There was a flash of hunger in his eyes before he managed to extinguish it. But that brief, bright flare caused Win's spirits to lift immeasurably.
After the scene that morning, and Merripen's display of jealous rage, Win had apologized to Julian. The doctor had been amused rather than disconcerted. "He is exactly as you described," Julian had said, adding ruefully, "… only more."
"More" was a fitting word to apply to Merripen, she thought. There was nothing understated about him. At the moment he looked rather like the brooding villain of a sensation novel. The kind who was always vanquished by the fair-haired hero.
The discreet glances Merripen was attracting from a group of ladies in the lobby made it evident that Win was not the only one who found him mesmerizing. The civilized attire suited him. He wore the well-tailored clothes without a trace of self-consciousness, as if he couldn't have cared less whether he was dressed like a gentleman or a dock laborer. And knowing Merripen, he didn't.