For the Love of a Gypsy by Madelyn Hill Page A

speak with Declan.
    How the Irishman consumed her thoughts, even though it was wrong.
    She remained near the other women, listened to their chatter about the upcoming wedding. Maria laughed and began laying the material in the high grass so it would dry. Martine just watched as if the reality was happening to someone else. If only that were true.
    Despite their kiss, she found comfort speaking with Declan. His interest in the dog training and her part in it made her feel important. Rare it was that any paid attention to her actions, since they were so used to her working with the dogs. And he was curious about their way of life. When he’d first arrived she knew his disdain, but now he asked question after question about their traditions and lifestyle. He had mellowed and began accepting their ways.
    The dark shadows that tainted his azure eyes remained with her as she recalled their conversation. His dulcet tones still teased her with their deep, rumbling quality. To connect with another outsider and be allowed into their life was lovely.
    “Didn’t you have to see to the children?”
    Martine turned toward Linka.
    “Get girl,” she said with a hostile scowl. “You have to teach them to read , don’t you know it.”
    Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Martine. But, as usual, Martine brushed her comment aside with a casual shrug. The older generations of the Rom didn’t understand her teaching the children to read, but along with keeping their trading fair and legal, Rafe and Martine had brought a sense of respectability to the group.
    “High and mighty, you are, girl. And without an ounce of trueness to you, poshrat .”
    Martine felt a snap of anger curl her tongue at the insult. “If you’ve a problem with our Kapo’s practices, you should speak with him.” Satisfaction flowed through her as the woman blanched at the idea of going to the Kapo .
    Maria stood close and gripped her hand in a show of solidarity. Linka backed away, yet anger sparkled in her dark gaze.
    Armed with more courage, Martine left Linka, disregarding her brother’s instruction, and headed toward her caravan.
    Before she entered, she straightened her skirt and wished for a pair of shoes to cover her dirty feet. Yet, her slippers were saved for special occasions, and they didn’t quite suit the rough wool of her skirt or the oft-washed linen of her chemise.
    With a quick twist of her dark hair, Martine steadied herself with a sigh and entered her home.
    Her grandmother sat beside the cot.
    She gasped.
    Declan lay on his stomach exposing his broad back, tan and scarred.
    Anya heard her and turned with a finger before her lips. Martine quietly strode forward.
    The closer she came, the more disturbing Declan’s back became. Och! How could someone prove so cruel to inflict such punishment?
    Her stomach clenched at the pain he must have felt, how it was obvious they’d festered in their gnarled raised lines. She wanted to run her hands across his back, bring the warmth of her palms to the scars and siphon away the anguish they represented.
    He stirred but did not wake. She felt relief. For she could imagine he wouldn’t be pleased she’d seen beyond the injuries that had brought him to the Rom.
    “Will ye be watching him then?” Anya whispered.
    Martine nodded and sat in the chair her grandmother had occupied, her mind still reeling over the scars. Her heart clenched over the pain and suffering Declan had endured. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at the angry scars crisscrossing the breadth of his back.
    “I’ll keep Rafe from coming this way as much as I can manage.” The elderly woman stretched and rubbed her back with her aged hands. “Yer doing the right thing, lass. ‘Tis a fine man here.”
    “I feel something,” she admitted as she avoided her grandmother’s gaze. “But I also don’t know if it is good or will bring shame to our clan.”
    Anya wagged a finger in Martine’s face. Her white brows met at the furrow above her