For the Love of a Gypsy by Madelyn Hill

away. “He can’t be leaving at his own whim. And how are we to know he won’t search out the magistrate to come after us?”
    She brought her hand up to her mouth, the damp air nearly sucking the wind from her. The pleasure of the creek was now voided by her brother’s nonsense. “He’d never do that.”
    The smirk that curled his lips churned her stomach. “Tell him to join us and then stay away from him. You’ve mocked our traditions. Have Anya tend him until he can truly leave.”
    Traditions, her mind screamed. How they smothered her with unbearable weight. How they tore at her, piece by piece, as she fought to keep them separate from her memories of her life before the Rom.
    And just as she sometimes hated the traditions, she knew she’d never forsake the clan that saved her, took her in as one of their own. Nurtured her.
    She was one of them.
    Again her brother read her mind. “By staying with us, you’ve accepted our ways.”
    Close to tears, she merely nodded, fearful the sadness and rage pulsing through her veins would be relayed in her words and irritate Rafe further.
    “Make sure he’s ready.”
    Martine swept her skirt clean. The ordinary action forced her hands into action, lest they find themselves around her brother’s neck.
    “I’ll tell him,” she said, not at all certain he’d comply, and secretly hoping he wouldn’t. Yet, she thought about him, about Lord Forrester sitting next to her as members of the clan danced, circling around the fire pit as darkness seeped in and an almost wantonness urged the music into a frenzy. Sometimes, if they were lucky, the stars and moon would light the sky and grace them with enough glow to continue the dancing and rivalry until the wee hours of the morning.
    She left her brother, clutching her chest, a little breathless and anxious. Definitely excited and curiously in control of her anger.
    “Martine.”
    She bit her lip to hold onto the retort she wished to brandish against him. “Aye, Rafe.”
    He rose and stood looming in front of her. “Send Anya. You’ve spent too much time with the lord.”
    She headed back to the encampment. When she entered, she quickly looked for her grandmother.
    With a weary sigh, she headed toward the cooking fire. No doubt she’d find Anya there.
    As she rounded the corner of a caravan, the sight before her made her smile. Anya sat like a mighty queen in a circle of women who either stirred what Martine knew was dye in the kettles or were wringing cotton dry of its coloring.
    Maria bound forward. “Come and see,” she said with a chuckle. She pulled Martine over to the pots of dye.
    “Lass, ye’ve come just in time.”
    Martine smiled down at her grandmother, her hands dipped in a steamy mixture of deep red dye.
    Realization struck her.
    They were making her wedding dress.
    It took a moment for her to gather her senses before she could speak. Her voice seemed locked within her throat, afraid to appear lest it cracked and croaked her request.
    Maria talked to her, her hands gesturing excitedly as she spoke of the special stitching and color of the gown.
    She could only think of the idea she’d be married soon. Married to a man she did not know, had never spoken to. Dread filled her as tears pooled in her eyes.
    “Rafe would like you to speak to the Irishman.” The hollow cadence of her words sounded queer to her, and it garnered the attention of the women, their piercing gazes pointing at her like sharp darts.
    Anya raised her brow. “And ye can’t be doing that for me?”
    Martine pulled herself straight, prideful and stubborn. And not willing to admit the truth of it. “I’ve the children to teach.”
    The falsehood must have rang true enough in Anya’s mind, for she rose, wiped her hands on her apron, now stained a muddle of reds. Her curt nod cut off further conversation and Martine watched as the hunched woman crossed the center of the camp and made her way into the caravan. How she longed to join her,