For the Love of a Gypsy Read Online Free Page A

who’d ordered the Kapo to leave.
    No matter, she thought with a smile of satisfaction. Lord Forrester had acknowledged her, and the realization swept through her with unparalleled warmth.
    He shook his head as he left the encampment. His words and actions of his men all reeked of Ettenborough and his lordly ways. Yet he had an obligation to keep the villagers and tenants safe. Keep his estate safe.
    And the woman—he shouldn’t have acknowledged her. But he couldn’t help himself. Her leader had mocked them. Declan was privy to some of the ways of the Gypsies. They didn’t take kindly to non-Gypsies— Gajos looking at their woman. And she had bravely stood by her brother with a shy and curious gaze. No matter, his actions might spur them to leave quicker. He bet they’d be gone before midnight.
    Kindred sensed his uncertainty and slowed from a canter to a trot. Declan urged him with a slight squeeze of his legs. The dark-haired woman plagued him much more so than the Gypsies plagued his land. Tinkers, he corrected, as if there were a difference. And as if the leader had spoken the truth. Their dark skin evidenced their lie and all he knew of them.
    “We’ll form a plan this evening if they do not leave,” he said to his men. Then he sent them to the estate as he slowed his horse, trying to delay the return to Riverton so he could contemplate the clan’s presence further.
    They were industrious, if the camp was any indication. Children had peeked out from wagon windows and their mothers’ skirts. Shy, yet daring. He grinned despite the situation.
    How he longed for a child, and he knew his wife suffered because she had yet to provide him an heir. No matter how he much he reassured her, she’d often cried herself to sleep. And her father didn’t help matters—the bastard insinuated his wife’s youthful transgression had cursed her—that God was punishing her, punishing them, for the sins of their past.
    ‘Twas why they remained in Ireland and hadn’t returned to England. Yet Ettenborough had feigned he missed his only child and was now visiting them.
    Declan knew better. Ettenborough’s visit was to remind him of who controlled his life.
    ‘Twas what drove Declan—the constant threats, innuendos. Drove him to find out more about his past and why he’d been sent to prison without committing a crime. He was determined to discover why he’d rotted away for years. He had to ensure his future was safe—for the sake of his wife and any child with which they were blessed.
    Ah, a child. Declan looked forward to the day when he could hold his child in his arms and forge a relationship that had been missing from his life.
    A babe would nearly wipe out the harsh realities of his past, his time in Newgate.
    Newgate haunted him night and day. The darkness surrounded him, pricking like the stab of a knife pierced his flesh. Haunting cries for freedom echoed off the stone walls and iron bars of the cell. Declan had shifted to ease his weight off his freshly-whipped back. The wounds festered, healed into raised scars crisscrossing the breadth of his shoulders. A man, face hidden in the shadows, his putrid scent giving him away, had reached his filthy hand between the bars that separated them. With obvious intent, he grasped at the bowl of gruel. Crazed with pain, Declan gripped the scrawny arm and jerked the man forward. The prisoner crashed into the iron bars, and the ominous sound of a skull cracking mixed with the howls of other unfortunate imprisoned men.
    Unflinchingly, he’d grabbed the bowl and lapped up the meager serving. The poor soul beside him lay, slack-bodied, open-eyed, hopefully in a better place.
    He gulped as his heart beat a staccato against his chest. The horrid memories had never abated.
    The murder of the prisoner soiled his hands with blood, and he wasn’t able to remove it regardless of numerous washings. After he caught his breath, he urged his steed into a gallop, eager to be home, to see