Seduce Me at Sunrise (The Hathaways #2)(80)

After an hour of nailing up screeds and testing various mixtures of lime, gypsum, and hairy clay, Kev and Leo and the workmen had settled on the right proportions.

Leo had taken an unexpected interest in the process, even devising an improvement on the three-coat plas-terwork by improving the base layer, or scratch coat. "Put more hair in this layer," he had suggested, "and rough it up with a darby tool, and that will give more of a clinch to the next coat."

It was clear to Kev that although Leo had little interest in the financial aspects of running the estate, his love of architecture and all related matters of construction was more keenly developed than ever.

As Leo was climbing down from the scaffolding, the housekeeper, Mrs. Barnstable, came to the doorway with a boy in tow. Kev regarded him with sharp interest. The boy appeared to be about eleven or twelve years of age. Even if he hadn't been dressed in colorful clothes, his bold features and coppery complexion would have identified him as a Rom.

"Sir," the housekeeper said to Kev apologetically, "I beg your pardon for interrupting your work. But this lad came to the doorstep speaking gibberish, and he refuses to be chased away. We thought you might be able to understand him."

The gibberish turned out to be perfectly articulate Romany.

"Droboy tume Romale," the boy said politely.

Kev acknowledged the greeting with a nod. "Mishto avilanV He continued the conversation in Romany. "Are you from the vitsa by the river?"

"Yes, kako. I was sent by the rom phuro to tell you that we found a Rom lying in the field. He's dressed like a gadjo. We thought he might belong to someone here."

"Lying in the field," Kev repeated, while a cold, biting urgency rose inside him. He knew at once that something very bad had happened. With an effort, he kept his tone patient. "Was he resting?"

The boy shook his head. "He is ill and out of his head. And he shakes like this-" He mimicked a tremor with his hands.

"Did he tell you his name?" Kev asked. "Did he say anything?" Although they were still speaking in Romany, Leo and Mrs. Barnstable stared at Kev intently, gathering that some emergency was taking place.

"What is it?" Leo asked, frowning.

The boy answered Kev, "No, kako, he can't say much of anything. And his heart-" The boy hit his own chest with a small fist, in a few emphatic thumps.

"Take me to him." There was no doubt in Kev's mind that the situation was dire. Cam Rohan was never ill, and he was in superb physical condition. Whatever had befallen him, it was outside the category of ordinary maladies.

Switching to English, Kev spoke to Leo and the housekeeper. "Rohan has been taken ill… He's at the Romany campsite. My lord, I would suggest that you dispense a footman and driver to Stony Cross Manor to collect Amelia at once. Mrs. Barnstable, send for the doctor. I'll bring Rohan here as soon as I can."

"Sir," the housekeeper asked in bewilderment, "are you referring to Dr. Harrow?"

"No," Kev said instantly. All his instincts warned him to keep Harrow out of this. "In fact, don't let him know what's going on. For the time being, keep this as quiet as possible."

"Yes, sir." Although the housekeeper didn't understand Kev's reasons, she was too well trained to question his authority. "Mr. Rohan seemed perfecdy well earlier this morning," she said. "What could have happened to him?"

"We'll find out." Without waiting for further questions or reactions, Kev gripped the boy's shoulder and steered him toward the doorway. "Let's go."

The vitsa appeared to be a small and prosperous family tribe. They had set up a well-organized camp, with two vardos and some healthy-looking horses and donkeys. The leader of the tribe, whom the boy identified as the rom phuro, was an attractive man with long black hair and warm, dark eyes. Although he was not tall, he was fit and lean, with an air of steady authority. Kev was surprised by the leader's relative youth. The word phuro usually referred to a man of advanced age and wisdom. For a man who appeared to be in his late thirties, it signified that he was an unusually respected leader.

They exchanged cursory greetings, and the rom phuro led Kev to his own vardo. "Is he your friend?" the leader asked with obvious concern.

"My brother." For some reason Kev's comment earned an arrested glance.

"It is good that you're here. It may be your last chance to see him this side of the veil."

Kev was astonished by his own visceral reaction to the comment, the rush of outrage and grief. "He's not going to die," Kev said harshly, quickening his stride and fairly leaping into the vardo.

The interior of the Gypsy caravan was approximately twelve feet long and six feet broad, with the typical stove and metal chimney pipe located to the side of the door. A pair of transverse berths was located at the other end of the vardo, one upper and one lower. Cam Rohan's long body was stretched out on the lower berth, his booted feet dangling over the end. He was twitching and juddering, his head rolling ceaselessly on the pillow.

"Holy hell," Kev said thickly, unable to believe such a change had been wrought in the man in such a short amount of time. The healthy color had been leeched out of Rohan's face until it was as white as paper, and his lips were cracked and gray. He moaned in pain, panting like a dog.