Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
To those gypsy souls who always look to the past before stepping into the future—this book is for you.
You are my people.
Chapter One
1717, Swansea, Wales
Murmurs from the crowd, all gathered into the stuffy Welsh church to witness my wedding to the fat, hairy-eared copper baron Charles Hoolihan, quieted as I stepped onto the plush carpet that had been laid out especially for this day.
Nothing too good for my Drucilla. Charles’ words, trembly with age, echoed in my mind. A hint of nausea burned the back of my throat at the prospect as to what awaited me tonight. I would finally be alone with my suitor-turned-husband, who was easily twice my age. And I wasn’t exactly a young maid myself.
The blood red carpet stretched before me, down the length of the aisle, before ending abruptly beneath the pale cross that hung on the far wall. Sea-inspired tapestries, specially commissioned and hung for today, covered the church walls and gave the room a foamy blue feel. The colormen Charles had brought in from England had certainly delivered on their job.
I tugged at the waist of my simple dress, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Charles had suggested I wear a billowy dress, in accordance with his opulent social standing here in Swansea’s society. We had even gone to the dressmaker and chosen a fluffy pattern. But in the end, I’d opted for this clamshell white frock, something like a schoolmarm might wear, that hung straight down to the floor. It accented none of my feminine features and promised the same. Charles had grinned through tight lips and patted my shoulder when I made my choice, but I still walked out with the dress I picked.
I swallowed hard. My clammy palms tightened around the spray of flowers I clutched. Already, they were beginning to wilt. The long lace veil that couldn’t be adjusted to cover the blade scar on my cheek may well have been a veil of iron fitted over my hair. All around the edges, my coal black mane insisted on peeking out wherever it could, clamoring for freedom.
Bright sunshine broke through the dismal clouds that had masked the day and shone through the balcony doors that were graciously left open. Just below, white capped swells of the north Atlantic crashed over the rocky bank in tune with my pounding heart. A sudden breeze swept over the balcony and through the open doors. I sucked in the air, heavy with salt, as a seagull cried in the distance. If I was still of a crying sort, I would have let go a tear or two now. But all my tears dried up long ago.
I surveyed the room with a wary eye. No family, since I had none. No friends, since I had none of those left, either. The faces of women whose names I didn’t know beamed from the church pews.
Fat aristocrats, all of them.
None of them would have offered me a penny when I was down and out in the poorhouse of Swansea. Not a good morrow nor even a smile. At least, not until Charles Hoolihan, the richest man in Wales, took a shine to me. Now, here they sat, grinning at me as though an invitation to tea was about to fly off each of their pursed, wrinkled lips. They knew as well as I that once the vows were said, I would be a richer woman than the entire lot of them put together.
I kept my face stoic and stared back at them.
Beneath the pale cross that dominated the far wall, Charles hobbled out and took his place next to the minister. His jagged, stumpy teeth peeked out from under his uneven moustache, even when he wasn’t smiling, and his chubby hands were clasped at his middle. A golden-handled sword hung at his side and he kept shifting his hefty weight, like a man uncomfortable wearing a blade.
I’d known men like him before. They were the easiest to kill. But those days were behind me, a memory so distant, that at times, I wasn’t certain the memories belonged to me. The blade scars on my face and neck reminded me that they were in fact mine to cherish.
You’ll make new memories. The tiny voice inside me sounded positive and certain. Finally, you’ll be a woman of wealth and stature. A respectable woman.
On a signal I obviously missed, a handful of the wedding-goers stood in unison. My eyes widened as one woman, wrapped in a pink shawl, strode over to the large harp that sat indiscriminately in the corner and eased herself down on the seat. She strummed an eloquent series of notes before the rest of the standing women began to sing.
Is thatThe Song of the White Piper?
A gnarled grandmotherly woman appeared at my side. “Go ahead dear, it’s time.”
I didn’t look at the old woman as I exhaled the breath I’d unwittingly been holding. Steeling my backbone, I began the slow steps down the red carpet. Alone.
Three more steps. You can do this.
He’s a good man, I’m sure.
He’ll never do me wrong and I’ll want for nothing the rest of my days.
Charles, who I more often than not mistakenly called Mr. Hoolihan, grinned from beneath the cross. I couldn’t look in his rheumy, hopeful eyes and focused just over his shoulder as thoughts swirled in my mind. The tapestry on which I focused featured a large wooden ship amid the frothy swells of the sea. Towering masts, billowing sails, and a jungle of ratlines made this tapestry my favorite. I searched the image for a Jolly Roger, or even that of a heavy bodied and bare-breasted woman, but found none. Still, my lips refused to turn up into a smile on what should be the happiest day of my life.
The harpist silenced, and the women took their seats as I stepped to Charles’ side. So quiet was the church that I wasn’t entirely sure I was breathing. I forced a swallow as the minister opened his mouth to speak.
The back door of the church met the wall with a crash and made me jump. Color heated my cheeks and I spun on my heel, my bouquet all but crushed in my grasp. There, in the outline of the doorway, stood a man clad in black.
His tall boots folded over just below his knees and his matching black waistcoat and britches took my breath. I blinked, then blinked again.
A ghost? A gasp hitched in my throat. His ghost.
Chapter Two
Seventeen Years Earlier, London, England
Entry fee, sir.” The large, muscular man that looked as though he threw heavy loads since the day he was born stared down at me from beneath his furrowed brow. He extended his hand. “Now.”
I stuck my hand in my pocket and fingered the tattered wanted poster that filled it. “You see,” I began, trying to hide my Russian accent by clearing my eighteen-year-old throat. “I was unaware of the requirement of an entry fee.”
“Then off with you, you unlicked cub,” he growled. “You can’t pay, you can’t come into White’s Chocolate House.”
I ignored the insult and stepped aside, my heart thumping in my chest. “I understand your job here is important,” I stammered. Mikhail, I thought to myself, you haven’t come this far for nothing.
The large man didn’t pay me any mind as he extended his hand to a gentlemanly sort of fellow in a tricorne beaver hat. The man slipped a pound into the large man’s hand and strode inside the elite establishment.
“It costs a pound just to set foot in the door?” My eyes widened. “All chocolate drinks included, I pray.”
“’Course not, them’s extra,” the doorman grumbled. “Now pay up or clear off.”
