Page 108 of Midnight Conquest

Rosselyn reached toward Davina, but she flinched away, holding Cailin closer to her chest as though the babe could shield her from the weight of this betrayal. “Don’t touch me!Pack your things. Both of you!”

“My mither—” Rosselyn began, voice trembling.

“Get out!” Tears blinded Davina as she staggered from the room, her heart splintering beneath the storm of fury and grief. She crossed the hall into her bedchamber and slammed the door behind her. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, clutching her daughter tightly as she wept with her infant, their cries entwined in shared sorrow.

How could Myrna have betrayed her family like that? How could she have lived beneath this roof, all the while concealing such a vile secret? Myrna had deceived them all, claiming the babe was her fiancé’s, that he had abandoned her—when all along, she had seduced Davina’s father.

Rage and heartbreak tangled in her chest as Cailin rooted against her breast, seeking comfort. Davina sniffled, latching onto the small solace her child provided.

She closed herself away in the nursery, drawing the shadows around her like a shroud.

As she fed her daughter, she rocked gently, willing the world to vanish beyond the walls of her grief, and clung to the numb embrace of denial.

Chapter Twenty

Rosselyn trudged into the Romani camp, shouldering her sack with trembling hands. Her cheeks were damp, and her throat burned from holding back sobs. Myrna walked a few paces behind her, silent and fuming. As Rosselyn glanced over her shoulder, she saw her mother’s lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. The bag slung over her shoulder hung heavy, but she carried it as though it were a shield, a barrier between herself and the world.

The camp was alive with its usual hum of activity—children darting between vardos, women hanging colorful fabrics on lines to dry, and men tending to the horses or sharpening tools. But the vibrant energy that had always felt so welcoming to Rosselyn now only made her feel small and out of place.

She truly cast us out.

The thought cycled through her mind over and over again. She had never thought Davina would throw them aside so easily, not after everything they’d been through together. But lookingback, it made sense—Davina worshipped her father. In her eyes, Lord Parlan could do no wrong.

Rosselyn sniffled and scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself as they stepped deeper into the camp. She could feel the curious gazes of the camp folk on her and her mother, but she kept her head down, her cheeks burning with shame.

A familiar voice called out, and she looked up just in time to see Nicabar striding toward her, his bright smile faltering as his gaze shifted from her tear-streaked face to the stormy expression on Myrna’s.

“Rosselyn,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. “What happened,mi amor?”

Her lip trembled, and she shook her head, unable to speak. He closed the distance between them, pulling her into his arms. The warmth and strength of his embrace broke the dam inside her, and she let out a soft sob, clutching at his shirt.

His arms tightened around her protectively, his hand cradling the back of her head as though shielding her from the weight of the world. “Hush now,” he murmured in his lilting accent. “Whatever it is, you’re safe here.”

Myrna, stiff and glaring, shifted her sack higher on her shoulder. “Safe,” she scoffed bitterly, her voice edged with scorn. “We’ll see about that.”

Nicabar’s gaze flicked to her, his expression sobering. He held Rosselyn a moment longer before gently pulling back to search her face. “Come,mi corazón. Let us get you both settled.”

Rosselyn nodded, her throat too tight for words, and let him guide her deeper into the camp, away from the prying eyes.

“Davina knows,” Rosselyn choked out. “It was all wrong. It didn’t happen at all like I thought it would.”

Nicabar’s arms tightened around her, his voice a soothing balm as he murmured low in her ear. “It does not matter,cariño. You and your mother have a place here, with me. Always.”

Rosselyn pulled back slightly, blinking up at him through her tears. “But—”

“No, no, no.” He cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs sweeping away the tears that clung to her cheeks. “You will stay in my vardo. Both of you. We will make it your home.”

Turning to Myrna, Nicabar offered her a roguish, comforting smile. “Do not fret,mi señora. You will never want for anything here. You will live a carefree life in my enchanting vardo, where the sky is our eternal roof, and the road our endless home. Together, we will see many sights, make many memories, and grow our family with love and laughter.”

Myrna’s brittle composure fractured. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she broke into quiet sobs, clinging to both Nicabar and Rosselyn. Nicabar gently patted her back, his voice warm and steady. “Come now, dry your tears. Let me take your belongings and settle them in the caravan. You should rest, and I will have Amice brew you something to soothe your fears.”

Rosselyn watched him, her heart swelling with gratitude as Nicabar lifted her mother’s bag and led her toward the vardo. He helped Myrna inside with a tender care, easing her onto the plush cushions.

Before he could step away, Rosselyn caught his hand and drew him into a kiss, soft but brimming with the depth of her love and thanks. When she finally pulled back, her voice trembled with emotion. “Thank you. For taking us both in.”

Nicabar smiled, his eyes warm as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her damp cheek. “We are family now,mi reina. Ofcourse, I will take you in.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and added with a reassuring glint in his gaze, “I shall return with something to calm your mother.”

Rosselyn stood at the doorway of the wagon, watching him in awe as he strode toward the old fortune teller’s vardo. Amice sat by the fire, her gnarled hands busy weaving a braid of herbs. Nicabar spoke to her in hushed tones, and the old woman nodded knowingly before reaching for a kettle and settling it over the crackling flames.

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