Page 12

“Actually, there is,” Colin cut in. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“We had a bit o’ trouble this mornin’. One o’ the shearers broke his finest pair o’ shears.

Slowed us down, it has, and the blacksmith’s off visitin’ kin.

Think yer husband might help us out? Maybe he kens someone who can lend a hand? ”

Davina paused, mind turning over the possibilities. “I overheard something in the village earlier,” she offered. “There’s a traveling blacksmith passing through who’s skilled with repairs. Might be worth sending word.”

Colin tilted his head, squinting. “Aye, heard a whisper of that myself. But how’d ye come by it, milady? For someone who doesnae ken much of her husband’s business, ye seem to ken a lot.”

Color crept into Davina’s cheeks, but her tone stayed cool. “I’m not completely ignorant, but I wasn’t aware I owed you an account of my time.”

“Colin,” Becca snapped from the hearth. “Mind yer manners and let Lady Davina see herself out. ”

He waved his wife off with a grunt but held Davina’s gaze a heartbeat longer before nodding. “Aye. My apologies, milady.”

Davina slipped a silver coin from her personal purse and set it on the table. “This should cover the repairs. If it falls short, send word to the castle. My husband will see it settled.”

Colin took the coin, giving it a thoughtful roll between his fingers. “We’ll see to it. Thank ye.”

“I’ll mention the shears to him as well,” Davina added. “He’ll want to be kept informed.”

Colin gave a nonchalant shrug, but his voice had an edge. “And when might that be, milady? When’s he due back?”

Davina’s jaw tightened. “Your guess is as good as mine, Colin. I don’t really account for his time, either. He likes it that way.”

“Hmm.” Colin’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Fair enough, milady. Fair enough.”

Davina moved toward the door, eager to end the conversation.

“Well, perhaps Lord Tammus will know,” he added, tone casual—too casual. “I just saw him arrive in the last hour.”

Her breath snagged in her throat. She turned slowly, forcing another smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Did you, now?”

“Aye,” Colin said, watching her closely. “He rode in lookin’ fit tae burst. Thought he might’ve come to the village, but I suppose he went straight tae the castle.”

Her pulse drummed in her ears. “How wonderful. I didn’t know he was planning a visit. I should hurry back to greet him.”

“Ye do that, milady,” Colin replied, voice polite, but his eyes gleamed with something darker—suspicion, maybe. Or satisfaction.

Davina’s lips ached from the strain of civility. She nodded and stepped out into the cold.

The night air hit her like a slap .

She didn’t pause to catch her breath.

She had to reach the castle before her uncle spoke with her mother.

Her shoes crunched on the gravel road as she hurried back toward the village. But as the cottages gave way to open fields, she slowed.

The breath caught in her throat.

The Romani had come.

A loose circle of vardos glowed at the edge of the tree line beside the village, their painted panels flickering in the firelight. Music threaded through the air—lilting, wild, familiar. Laughter rose and fell. The scent of spice and woodsmoke tangled in the wind.

Davina’s heart pounded. She scanned the camp. There. Amice, tending a kettle. A few others she recognized from Aberdeen.

“Saints protect me,” she whispered, pulling her cloak tight. She ducked her head and moved to skirt the edge of the camp.

“Davina?”

The voice was soft. Familiar.

Her head snapped up, and her heart sank.

Amice stood at the camp’s edge, her silhouette framed by firelight and flickering shadows. Her long silver braid was wrapped over one shoulder, and a sly grin curled the edge of her mouth.

Their eyes locked.

Recognition flared.

And worse—amusement.

Davina froze, the chill from earlier now a full-body flush of dread. Her breath caught in her throat.

Amice raised a brow, tilting her head in silent greeting.

Davina spun on her heels and bolted, skirts gathered in her fists as she fled down the darkened path toward the castle.

∞∞∞

The flickering oil lamp hanging from the tent’s edge cast golden light across the tall castle guard seated across from Broderick. The man leaned forward, eyes fixed on his palm as Broderick traced the lines.

“How in blazes does he even see anythin’”? the lad thought.

Broderick arched a brow, lips twitching. He couldn’t have been more than five-and-twenty, with a decent build and an earnest face—handsome in a rough, trustworthy sort of way. Aye, he might make a fine match for Veronique… if Broderick could manage to nudge the girl’s affections elsewhere.

The man had come seeking love in his future. Broderick, ever the showman, leaned into the role.

His success as a fortune teller stemmed from a blend of supernatural ability and well-honed intuition.

The gift of hearing mortal thoughts let him slip beneath their facades where they hid desires, doubts, and hopes.

From there, he adjusted course—the dreams they wanted, the warnings they needed, the stories they’d carry away in their hearts.

Did he lie? Occasionally. But in his sixty-four years, Broderick learned that desperate belief was often more powerful than truth.

A whisper of confidence could spark change.

A painted path could lead someone to the real one.

What did it matter if the future was imagined, so long as it gave them the courage to shape it?

And if this particular imagined future kept Veronique occupied? All the better.

Aye, this lad—Anthony—might prove useful yet.

“I see a romantic adventure in yer future, laddie,” he said, his deep brogue edged with sly conspiracy.

“Very near future. In fact, I believe the lass ye seek might be very close indeed. But…” Broderick paused, pretending to study the lines more intently.

“Ye’ve seen her in passin’ and she sparked yer interest. Someone not from this village, though. ” He released the man’s hand.

The lad’s lips parted, his eyes wide. “ Ah, mayhap the beautiful Gypsy girl, Veronique, ” his thoughts explored. His heart thundered. “Well, that was an interestin’ experience,” he said aloud, his outer appearance belying the thrill of anticipation beneath the surface. “Thank ye, sir.”

“Ye’re welcome, lad.” Broderick offered a courteous nod toward the tent’s flap. “Now, if ye dinnae mind, I’ve a long night ahead. Many more palms tae read.”

“Of course.” The young man stood, fumbling for the pouch at his waist. He dropped a few billon pennies into the basket by Broderick’s elbow and swaggered from the tent.

Broderick leaned back with a smug grin, arms crossed. Aye, let’s see if those seeds take root.

Rising from the table, he stepped into the night.

The Romani camp sprawled vibrant and alive across the glen, wagons gleaming in rich hues of crimson, cobalt, and gold, their carved panels a colorful display.

The mingled scents of roasted meat and mulled wine drifted through the air.

Fiddles sang. Laughter rose. Villagers swirled around the fires, caught in revelry.

The compulsion he’d planted the night before had done its work. The people of Strathbogie—and the surrounding village—had arrived, purses open, hearts eager .

“Not bad,” he murmured with satisfaction.

His gaze snagged on Amice. She sat where she always did—near their private campfire, that gnarled stick of hers poking embers with quiet authority. Her expression, unreadable.

But when their eyes met, her mouth curled into a slow, knowing smile.

Broderick arched a brow. “What mischief are ye brewin’ now, woman?” he asked, keeping his tone light, though a flicker of suspicion danced behind his grin.

Amice tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “ Moi ? Mischief? Non, mon fils ,” she replied in her lilting French accent. “I simply observe.”

Broderick’s shoulders bounced with a huff. He narrowed his eyes. She was blocking her thoughts again, something she did far too well for his liking. “What are ye hidin’, lass?”

Her smile deepened, but she offered no answer.

Before he could press further, Nicabar approached, his face alight with enthusiasm.

“Ah, mi hermano !” Nicabar clapped Broderick’s shoulder with familiar warmth. “You were true to your word. Look at this place! I have not seen business this fine in years.” He gestured wide toward the bustling crowd. “You have done well.”

Broderick gave a half smile. “Told ye I’d deliver.”

Nicabar leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Any sign of Davina…and her handmaid?”

Broderick’s grin widened. “Not yet, eh? If the lass doesnae show soon, I’ll be sure tae do somethin’ about that.”

“Ha!” Nicabar barked a laugh, then sobered. “Do not forget—we head south next week. You gave your word, and I expect you to honor it.”

“I said I would,” Broderick replied, tone steady .

Satisfied, Nicabar gave him a firm clap on the back and disappeared into the festivities.

As his footsteps faded, Amice gave a long, knowing sigh. “It is a good thing you promised him that, mon fils .”

Broderick frowned. “Oh? And why is that?”

She tilted her head toward the road. “Because the lovely Davina just passed the camp, scurrying like a frightened mouse. If she reaches that castle, you may not get another chance. We shall be gone before next week to be sure, I should think.”

Broderick straightened, his lazy stance snapping to attention. So that was what she’d been hiding. A slow smile curved his lips, and a deep chuckle rolled through his chest. “You know castle walls willnae keep me out.”

The old Gypsy shrugged. “Perhaps.” She gave the campfire another poke, embers rising like tiny stars into the air.

Broderick’s gaze flicked toward the road, his thoughts churning. He fastened his cloak with forced casualness, then he softened his tone, just for Amice. “I need tae feed. I’ll deal wi’ Davina soon enough.”

Amice said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Broderick clenched his jaw. He wasn’t fooling her, and deep down, he knew it.

Damn the woman.

Without another word, he turned and strode away from the camp. The hood of his cloak cast his face in shadow, his steps silent as falling snow.

Time to hunt.

Time to feed.

Time to claim his midnight conquest.