Page 91 of Midnight Conquest

She had no inkling of his mood, no understanding of why he’d left so abruptly. Had she completely misread him? It seemed soif the fury in his eyes when he’d confronted Finlay was any indication. His wrath had scorched both her suitor and her. Could it have been…jealousy?

But why?

They had agreed they were not suited for marriage. He had made it painfully clear he sought only to finish what they had started. Nothing more.

Did she want to feel him above her again, to be lost in the wild, consuming storm of him? Aye. Sweet mercy, aye. But then what? He would vanish again, and she’d be no closer to solving her predicament.

Her uncle remained immovable in his demands, and if Finlay did not return, she would be forced to wed MacLeod. The very thought turned her stomach.

Broderick hadn’t even asked how she felt about Finlay, nor given her the chance to explain her uncle’s ultimatum. Was he simply executing their original scheme to drive away suitors? Or did his actions hint at something deeper?

Beside her, Rosselyn cleared her throat, as if to speak. Davina caught the movement and turned her gaze toward her friend. Rosselyn’s cheeks flushed with color, and she quickly dropped her eyes, her mouth pressing shut.

“Rosselyn, are you well?” Davina touched her friend’s hand in quiet support as they walked.

Rosselyn’s bottom lip trembled before she forced a nod. “Aye, Davina. All is well.”

Davina stopped and faced Rosselyn, taking both her hands. “Something is bothering you. Tell me.”

Rosselyn’s eyes welled with tears, her chin twitching with whatever plagued her thoughts. “I…” She closed her eyes. “I’m so scared Tammus will make you marry MacLeod.”

Davina’s heart melted and she pulled her into her arms. “Oh, my sweet friend. I am not marrying that brute, I can promise you that.” She pushed Rosselyn back, a firm grip on her shoulders. “If we have to run away with the Gypsies together and raise Cailin in a wagon, I swear to you, I am not marrying that man!”

Rosselyn laughed through her tears and nodded.

They arrived at the outskirts of the Romani camp, where smoke curled lazily from cooking fires. Rosselyn hesitated, then said, “I will speak with Nicabar about Broderick. Don’t wait for me. If I hear anything, though, I’ll come find you straightaway.”

As Rosselyn headed for his caravan, an unexpected ache rose in Davina’s chest. Rosselyn and Nicabar spent more and more time together. Was she losing her handmaid and best friend? Mayhap that was what Rosselyn tried to tell her on the road. Rosselyn deserved to be happy, and Davina never saw her friend glow like she did with Nicabar. Her brow furrowed and her protective nature bubbled up. He had best not be toying with her friend’s emotions or she would hang the man from his bullocks! Davina snorted and narrowed her eyes at the caravan where Rosselyn entered.

Steering toward Broderick’s caravan, she made a mental note to keep watch over this growing attachment.

Ahead, Amice rambled in rapid French at her granddaughter, her voice biting with warning. Something about keeping to herself and not chasing after what would never happen, from what Davina could gather with the French she knew. As she neared their fire, the young woman scowled in her direction, only for Amice to seize her arm and whisper harshly in her ear. Gasps of protest hissed from the girl’s lips before she stomped into the wagon, leaving Davina alone with the aged Romaniwoman.

“Please, join me,chérie,” Amice invited, her voice softer now, though her keen gaze missed nothing.

Davina planted her hands on her hips. “Actually, I’m here to ask you about Broderick. Do you know where he is?”

Unbothered by the question, Amice turned to the pot simmering over the fire. She ladled steaming pottage into two wooden bowls and offered one to Davina along with a thick chunk of grainy bread. “Come. Sit. I do not like to eat alone.”

Davina’s stomach growled in protest of her earlier haste. The news about Finlay had interrupted her and Rosselyn before they’d broken their fast, and the hearty aroma of the stew was irresistible. She accepted the offer and settled onto a stool beside Amice, a small stump between them serving as their table.

Her mouth watered as she blew on the thick brew before tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into the bowl. The pottage was rich and savory, the flavors brightened by a deft hand with herbs.

“Thank you, Amice. This is delicious,” Davina said, genuine appreciation warming her tone.

“Merci beaucoup.” Amice’s grin deepened the creases in her weathered face, though a shadow lingered in her eyes.

Davina hesitated, not wishing to appear ungrateful by pressing her for answers while being welcomed with such hospitality.

Amice bit off the end of her bread. “And how is your mother,chérie?”

“Much better since you told me about autumn crocus for her rheumatism.”

“Très bien.” Amice continued to eat her food while Davina patiently waited for her to answer the question.

Davina rolled her eyes, her gaze drifting to the painted side of the tent. A woman with flowing blonde hair sat at a table, cards spread before her. “This painting resembles your granddaughter,” Davina observed, curiosity knitting her brows. “I haven’t seen her telling fortunes, though.”

Amice glanced at the painting and blushed, a sparkle of nostalgia in her eyes. “Non, that is not of Veronique.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “C’est moi!” Amice giggled like a young girl reliving a cherished memory.

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