How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(8)

The back door of a wagon opened and the same woman who had addressed Luca emerged. Everyone stilled and watched her as she took the three narrow wood steps down to the ground with far more agility than he expected for one so ancient looking, with her wizened face and crooked, gnarled hands.

She approached Owen in several quick strides, then peered up at him, scanning the girl in his arms. “Come. Down with her. I thought you wished to hurry? You wish her to die up there on that horse?”

Shaking his head, he dismounted. Standing before the older woman, he saw in an instant that she was no taller than a child. She only came to the middle of his chest, her shoulders and upper back deeply hunkered. He imagined it had been some years since she could walk fully upright.

Eyeing the bundle in his arms, she lifted those gnarled hands to the girl and announced, “I am Mirela.” Her fingers prodded and squeezed. When she came to the broken leg, she made a disapproving cluck of her tongue. Peering beneath the ragged gown at the leg itself, her expression grew grimmer. Shaking her head, her hands moved to cup the girl’s face. She made a hissing sound at this contact with her skin.

“Too hot,” she pronounced. “Quickly. Bring her inside.”

“Mama,” Luca objected, stepping in her path.

She glared up at her son, not appearing the least intimidated by the giant.

Another woman stepped closer, dark and lovely with eyes an eerie whiskey color. “Mama, these are outsiders. You always say that we must keep to our own.”

Mirela wagged a twisted finger. “You don’t need to fling my words at me, Nadia. I know what I say. And I also understand what I mean.” Her dark eyes narrowed meaningfully on her son, clearly implying that he did not.

Nadia shook her head, tossing her thick mane of glossy black hair around her slim shoulders. “Then why?”

Owen waited, quite certain that Mirela held the final power among the tribe. “He said he has money.” She snapped her fingers toward him, the sound startling and sharp on the air. Her dark eyes pinned him. “You have money, yes?”

Still not speaking, Owen nodded, even realizing as he did that this group could simply overpower him and take the money without helping the girl. It was a risk he had to take.

“We need money, and this girl . . .” She swept her gaze over his charge. “I can fix her. Perhaps.” She shrugged. “We will see, no?”

With that less than heartening assertion, she turned and waved a hand for Owen to follow. “Nadia,” she called over her shoulder. “Come. You help me.”

Owen heard the younger woman sigh, but she fell into step behind him.

He ducked inside the wagon. Mirela directed him with an imperious finger to set the girl upon a bed.

“She has a name?” she asked as she bent over her.

He shrugged.

“You do not know?” Nadia looked him over, the suspicion in her eerie golden gaze all the brighter.

“I found her.”

Mirela made a noncommittal sound as she set about removing his damsel’s damp nightgown. Owen quickly turned.

“Why you look away?” Mirela demanded over the sound of ripping fabric.

“To protect her . . .” He groped for the word for a moment. “ . . . virtue.” It was not a word that had crossed his thoughts in a good many years.

Nadia passed his line of vision, the ruined nightgown in her hands. A faint smirk curved her lips as though he had amused her.

“You should have no such concerns,” the old woman said matter-of-factly behind him. “She belongs to you now. You may look your fill.”

A frown pulled at his lips.

“You don’t think so. You found her. You saved her life. She is yours now.”

His frown deepened, the notion beyond troubling. He didn’t want anyone to belong to him. “Perhaps in your culture.”

“It is not culture. It is a law of nature. If she lives, it will be because of you. You are bound. Now turn around.”

Convinced that no one ever disobeyed this woman, he turned, relieved to see the girl covered in a blanket. Her leg was exposed. In the lamp-lit confines of the wagon, he could better assess the damage. It was undeniably broken, the bone pushing oddly against her pale skin.

Nadia returned and together they quickly cleaned her, carefully rinsing off her leg, as well as the cuts and abrasions riddling so many of her limbs.

With a look of intense concentration, Mirela then ran her knotted hands up and down the length of the broken leg. It obviously hurt. Even in her feverish state, the girl winced and squirmed.

He sent a questioning look to Nadia. Mirela did not miss it.

“We need to set this properly if she has a hope to walk normally,” Mirela answered, as if he had asked her. “You.” She nodded at him. “Come up here by her shoulders.”

Owen rounded the bed. Following the old woman’s instructions, he slid his arms beneath the girl’s arms and watched as Mirela moved to stand alongside her broken leg.

She and Nadia exchanged several words in a language he could not interpret. Nadia grasped the bare foot of the broken leg, gripping it tightly in two hands.

Mirela looked at him. “When I say pull, you jerk her back by the shoulders.” Her dark eyes glittered at him from her lined face. “Very hard. Understand?”

He nodded.

Mirela’s hand fluttered over the broken limb. “Now! Pull!”