Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(109)

“Anything you wish,” he said, chuckling at her eagerness. A cooling breeze ruffled his shining ebony hair as he looked down at her. Rosalie smiled at him, her eyes gleaming with a vivid daylight blue. Inexplicably, Guillaume hesitated before offering her his arm. Mireille fell into step with them as they pushed through the congested square and jostling crowd.

“Monsieur de Berkeley said that mademoiselle should not be left alone for even one minute,” Mireille said, her voice becoming higher as she sought to make herself heard above the noise.

“And so she will not be,” Guillaume replied. “You and I, Mira, will go with mademoiselle to witness the foretelling of her destiny.”

Rosalie laughed lightly. “I already know part of what she’ll predict: I will be going on a long voyage, on a ship destined for a distant land—”

“You will marry a rich and handsome man,” Mireille added, giggling, “and you will teach more of your language to a dark-haired girl—”

“And her dark-haired brother,” Rosalie said, glancing mischievously at Guillaume. “Now you will have to learn English, Guillaume.”

“I have always gotten through life very well with French, merci,” he answered politely.

“I am certain that your French will entrance many Englishwomen,” Rosalie said, “but they will not understand a word of it.”

“Ahhh . . . then for the women of England, perhaps I will learn a little.”

Guillaume’s concession was uttered in so noble a fashion that Rosalie and Mireille could not help laughing. They neared the gaudily painted wagon, but as he placed his foot on the first tiny step leading up to the door, Guillaume stopped and frowned.

“Mira . . .”he began, and groaned in a self-disgusted manner as he made a quick search of his pockets. “Mira, do you remember where the caramel oranges are sold?” “Assurement,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Why do you—?”

“I think that I dropped the money purse there. Zut, when I paid for the last oranges you ate, I must have mislaid it—you have quick little feet, would you run back there to see if it is still on the ground?”

“Yes, yes. But what about the fortune—?” “I will accompany mademoiselle while her fortune is being told, and we will be waiting here when you return. Is this agreeable to you, mademoiselle?” “Yes,” Rosalie said, “but if you would prefer to wait until Mireille—”

“No, don’t wait,” Mireille said, shaking her head and sighing with mock impatience. “Guillaume, this is not like you.” Then she smiled at him with warm affection.

“I suppose you are merely excited about leaving tomorrow for England.”

“That is very true,” he agreed. “Now, hurry, before some local peasant profits from my carelessness.”

Mireille scampered away quickly.

Rosalie looked after her. “I hope she finds it.” “If anyone could, she will,” Guillaume replied, and helped her up the rickety steps to the Gypsy wagon. Rosalie entered the shadowy interior of the vehicle cautiously, blinking in the darkness until the effects of the sunlight faded from her eyes. A small table draped with a shawl stood resolutely in the center of the enclosed space. It bore the weight of charts and maps, a crystal ball, and an unlit candle. Other articles of furniture were lodged in the sides and corners of the wagon, but they were only dim shapes. A woman sat in the corner, her hair confined by a scarf, her lips curving in a faint smile.

“Welcome.”

It was too dark in there, the air still and suffocating. The fair and the sunlight seemed miles away. Rosalie felt agitation fluttering inside her body as she looked at the woman, agitation which grew until it began to throttle her. She backed up a step until sbe felt Guillaume’s chest against her shoulder blades. Clamoring instinct told her that she was in the presence of danger, and she wanted nothing more than to leave the wagon immediately.

“Guillaume, take me out of here,” she whispered. His hands moved from her narrow shoulders to her elbows in a gentle caress, and then suddenly she felt him clasp her wrists in an iron grip. In confusion, she tried to pull away, crying out as Guillaume pulled her arms behind her back and bound her wrists with a sinewy cord. “Stop it! What are you doing?” As she struggled he cuffed her lightly across the jaw, stunning her for the fraction of a minute necessary to immobi Jize her completely. He gagged her efficiently, knotting a handkerchief behind her head so firmly that there was no chance of its coming undone. Then her feet were bound, and she was trussed up like a helpless fly in a spider’s net. Guillaume picked her up easily, clucking in reluctant sympathy as he felt her body stiff with rage and fear, her pulse hammering.

“Easy, lady angel,” he soothed, laying her down on a thin mattress on the floor. Rosalie was vaguely aware of the movements of the woman in the wagon, who was busy clearing away all of the articles on the table. “You won’t be hurt. Listen to me well—no one will hurt you.” He did not look into her turbulent gaze as he wiped the streaming tears off her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “The world is not good to those like you, is it? But angels don’t belong on earth, for there are too many poor sinners here like me and Mira and your beloved Rand, all scrapping over what we need to survive. I had to do this for Mira and me. We are rich now, and I’ll be able to take care of Mira far better than you would have in England.”