How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(7)

His hand reached down to cup her face, trying to offer some comfort. “Don’t be frightened. I mean you no harm.”

Nothing in her wild, searching gaze indicated she understood or even heard him. Those eyes looked right through him, as though she were somewhere else entirely, caught up in a living nightmare. Her breath fell faster in sharp little pants.

“Easy,” he soothed, not really knowing what sort of words he should say. He wasn’t accustomed to doling out comfort or reassurances. He pressed a hand awkwardly over her forehead and made a hushing sound. The kind his old nanny used to make whenever he’d hurt himself as a child.

Perhaps it worked. Or perhaps she was just out of her head with pain.

Her eyelids drifted shut. After a long moment he looked back up at the road and urged his mount faster, suddenly determined that she would live out the day.





Chapter Four





An hour into the trek, and he knew the damsel in distress he’d rescued from the banks of the river was in the gravest danger. She burned with fever. Heat radiated off her and roasted him through his clothes. He rode his mount hard now. Digging in his heels, he gave Jasper his lead, less concerned for her comfort. Jostling the woman’s leg was now secondary to getting her into the hands of someone who could ease her fever.

He doubted they would reach the village in time. He glanced around, debating stopping somewhere. But then he was plagued with what it was he himself could do. What could he offer her? He wasn’t equipped to care for her along a roadside.

He wondered if he should take one of the more obscure paths leading off the main road in search of a farm or cottage. He cursed beneath his breath and spared her a quick glance. Her face was even more colorless, if possible—the shadows beneath her eyes twin bruises. He’d seen men look this badly before. Moments before they took their last breath. Comrades, men he fought alongside. And sometimes, naturally, they had been enemies. Men whose lives he’d been charged with ending.

He shook off the memories. She was not them. Nor would she become one of them either. Not if he had any control over the matter.

You’ve never had any control over the matter, a dark, insidious little voice whispered inside his head. He dismissed the voice. Saving this girl’s life had somehow become important to him. Something he had to do. Maybe this once he could help. Maybe this one could live. And perhaps he could be the reason. It was hardly his area of expertise, but he was determined to try.

Ahead, he spied a rider. Several, in fact. At least four horsemen emerged, followed by two slow-moving wagons. Trailing the wagons were another three riders. He eyed their colorful attire. Females drove the wagons, their dark hair loose down their backs, their heads covered by bright kerchiefs.

Gypsies. He’s seen his share here and abroad. Realizing they might be his best hope, he spurred his mount. Holding up a hand, he called out a greeting.

The horsemen riding in front quickly formed a wall, shielding the wagons. “Move aside,” one of the men quickly demanded in a thick accent.

“We need help.” He nodded to the female in his arms, lifting her higher for them to see. “She’s hurt.”

The men exchanged glances before the older one spoke. “Not our concern.”

“Please. I found her beside the river . . .” He looked down at the girl. “There must be one among you who can help her . . .” He knew Gypsies looked after themselves. They wouldn’t have a physician in their midst, but someone among them must be savvy in the healing arts.

“Move out of the way.”

Owen did not miss how one of the younger men slid a long look from his leader back to the idling wagons.

Owen pointed to the wagons. “One of your people is a healer perhaps? Please. We haven’t much time. She’s very ill. I can pay . . .” His voice faded as the Gypsy pulled an ancient looking pistol out from his leather vest and aimed it directly at him.

Owen smiled at the irony. To die here . . . after making it out of India alive.

The leader frowned. Clearly he expected a different reaction from a man facing the end of his pistol. It had been years since Owen cared one way or another about his living or dying. Back in India there were days when he would gladly have accepted death.

“If you must shoot me, will you then tend to her? Can I have your word on that?”

The leader’s swarthy skin flushed a splotchy red. He pulled back the hammer. “You are one foolish Englishman.”

“Luca!” The sharp command carried from one of the wagons.

The leader looked back over his shoulder. The curtain behind the driver parted a slit to reveal a fraction of a woman’s face. Old and wrinkled, brown as the cracked earth of a desert. Her night dark eyes settled on Owen for a long moment, measuring him where he sat atop his mount.

At last she snapped, “Find somewhere to camp, Luca. Bring the Englishman and the girl.”

“But Mama—” Luca begin.

“Do as I say.” Her face disappeared as the curtain dropped back in place.

Luca turned a scowl on Owen. “Follow.” He bit out the single word, but his flashing gaze conveyed just how much he resented the directive. He slid his pistol into his thick, leather studded belt, keeping the weapon in plain sight. No doubt to serve as a warning.

Owen followed the group as they continued down the road, turning off an obscure path. Brush and branches encroached on all sides. When the path finally opened wide enough to position the wagons side by side, they halted. Several more bodies climbed down from the wagons. Mostly women. A few children. They eyed him with speculation and a general distrust, although none looked at him with quite the iciness that Luca did.