Mine Till Midnight

"Marriage line? Where is it?" Amelia took her hand from his arm and scrutinized her own palm.

Rohan drew her with him beneath the shade of a bulky beech tree on the edge of the green. Crowds milled across the cropped oval, while the last few swags of sunlight crumpled beneath the horizon. Torches and lamps were already being lit in anticipation of evening.

"This one," Rohan said, taking her left hand, turning it palm upward.

Amelia's fingers curled as a wave of embarrassment went through her. She should have been wearing gloves, but her best pair had been stained, and her second-best pair had a hole in one of the fingers, and she hadn't yet managed to buy new ones. To make matters worse, there was a scab on the side of her thumb where she'd gashed it on the edge of a metal pail, and her nails had been filed childishly short after she’d broken them. It was the hand of a housemaid, not a lady. For one wistful moment she wished she had hands like Win’s, pale, long-fingered, and elegant.

Rohan stared for a moment. As Amelia tried to pull away, he closed his hand more firmly around hers. “Wait,?she heard him murmur.

She had no choice but to let her fingers relax into the warm envelope of his hand. A blush raced over her as she felt his thumb nuzzle into her palm and stroke outward until all her fingers were lax and open.

His quiet voice seemed to collect at some hidden pleasure center at the base of her skull. "Here." His fingertip brushed over a horizontal line at the base of her little finger. "Only one marriage. It will be a long one. And these? He traced a trio of small vertical notches that met the marriage line. "It means you’ll have at least three children." He squinted in concentration. "Two girls and a boy. Elizabeth, Jane, and?Ignatius."

She couldn’t help smiling. "Ignatius?"

"After his father, " he said gravely. "A very distinguished bee farmer."

The spark of teasing in his eyes made her pulse jump. She took his hand and inspected the palm. "Let me see yours."

Rohan kept his hand relaxed, but she felt the power of it, bone and muscle flexing subtly beneath sun-glazed skin. His fingers were well tended, the nails scrupulously clean and pared neatly to the quick. Gypsies were fastidious, even ritualistic in their washing. The family had long been amused by Merripen’s views on what constituted proper cleanliness, his preference to wash in flowing water rather than soak in a bath.

"You have an even deeper marriage line than I do," Amelia said.

He responded with a single nod, his gaze not moving from her face.

"And you’ll have three children as well?or is it four?" She touched a nearly imperceptible line etched near the side of his hand.

"Only three. The one on the side means I’ll have a very short betrothal."

"You’ll likely be prodded to the altar by the end of some outraged father’s rifle."

He grinned. "Only if I kidnap my fiancée from her bedroom."

She studied him. "I find it difficult to imagine you as a husband. You seem too solitary."

"Not at all. I’ll take my wife everywhere with me." His fingers caught playfully at her thumb, as if he’d caught a wisp of dandelion thistle. "We’ll travel in a vardo from one side of the world to the other. I’ll put gold rings on her fingers and toes, and bracelets on her ankles. At night I’ll wash her hair and comb it dry by the firelight. And I’ll kiss her awake every morning."

Amelia averted her gaze from him, her cheeks turning blood-hot and sensitive. She moved away, needing to walk, anything to break the flushing intimacy of the moment. He fell into step beside her as they crossed the village green.

"Mr. Rohan?why did you leave your tribe?"

"I’ve never been quite certain."

She glanced at him in surprise.

"I was ten years old," he said. "For as long as I could remember, I traveled in my grandparents' vardo. I never knew my parents—my mother died in childbirth, and my father was an Irish gadjo. His family rejected his marriage and convinced him to abandon my mother. I don't think he ever knew she'd had a child."

"Did anyone try to tell him?"

"I don't know. They may have decided it wouldn't have changed anything. According to my grandparents, he was a young man"—he flashed a brief, mischievous smile in her direction?and immature even for a gadjo. One day my grandmother dressed me in a new shirt she had made, and told me I had to leave the tribe. She said I was in danger and could no longer live with them."

"What kind of danger? From what source?"

"She wouldn't say. An older cousin of mine—his name was Noah—took me to London and helped me find a situation and a job. He promised to come back for me someday and tell me when it was safe to go home."

"And in the meantime you worked at the gaming club?"

"Yes, old Jenner hired me as a listmaker's runner." Rohan's expression softened with reminiscent fondness. "In many ways he was like a father to me. Of course, he was quick-tempered and a bit too ready with his fists. But he was a good man. He looked out for me."

"It couldn't have been easy for you," Amelia said, feeling compassion for the boy he had been, abandoned by his family and obliged to make his own way in the world. "I wonder that you didn't try to run back to your tribe."

"I had promised I wouldn't." Seeing a leaf fluttering down from an overhead tree branch, Rohan reached upward, the clever fingers plucking it from the air as if by sleight of hand. He brought the leaf to his nose, inhaling its sweetness, and gave it to her.

"I stayed at the club for years," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Waiting for Noah to come back for me."

Amelia chafed the crisply pliant skin of the leaf between the pads of her fingers. "But he never did."

Rohan shook his head. "Then Jenner died, and his daughter and son-in-law took possession of the club."

"You've been treated well in their employ?"

"Too well." A frown swept across his forehead. 'They started my good-luck curse."

"Yes, I've heard about that." She smiled at him. "But since I don't believe in luck or curses, I'm skeptical."

"It's enough to ruin a Gypsy. No matter what I do, money comes to me."

"How dreadful. That must be very trying for you."

"It's damned embarrassing," he muttered with a sincerity she couldn't doubt.

Half amused, half envious, Amelia asked, "Had you ever experienced this problem before?"

Rohan shook his head. "But I should have seen it coming. It's fate." Stopping with her, he showed her his palm, where a cluster of star-shaped intersections glimmered at the base of his forefinger. "Financial prosperity," came his glum explanation. "And it won't end any time soon."

"You could give your money away. There are countless charities, and many people in need."

"I intend to. Soon." Taking her elbow, he guided her carefully around an uneven patch of ground. "The day after tomorrow, I'm returning to London to find a replacement factotum at the club."

"And then what will you do?"

"Live as a true Roma. I'll find some tribe to travel with. No more account books or salad forks or shoe polish. I'll be free."

He seemed convinced that he would be satisfied with a simple life—but Amelia had her doubts. The problem was, there was no middle ground. One could not be a wanderer and a domesticated gentleman at the same time. A choice had to be made. It made her thankful that no duality existed in her own nature. She knew exactly who and what she was.

Rohan brought her to a stall set up by the village wine shop, and bought two cups of plum wine. She drank the tart, slightly sweet vintage in thirsty gulps, making Rohan laugh quietly. "Not so fast," he cautioned. "This stuff is stronger than you realize. Any more and I'll have to haul you home over my shoulders like a felled deer."

"It's not that strong," Amelia protested, unable to taste any alcohol in the fruit-heavy wine. It was delicious, the dry plummy richness lingering on her tongue. She held out her cup to the wine-seller. "I'll take another."

Although proper women didn't ordinarily eat or drink in public, the rules were often cast aside at rural fairs and festivals, where gentry and commoners rubbed elbows and ignored the conventions.

Looking amused, Rohan finished his own wine, and waited patiently as she drank more. "I found a beekeeper for you," he said. "I described your problem to him. He said he would go to Ramsay House tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. One way or another, you'll be rid of the bees."

"Thank you," Amelia said fervently. "I am indebted to you, Mr. Rohan. Will it take long for him to remove the hive?"

"There's no way of knowing until he sees it. With the house having gone unoccupied for so long, the colony could be quite large. He said he'd once encountered a hive in an abandoned cottage that harbored half a million bees, by his estimate."

Her eyes turned enormous. "Half a million?

"I doubt yours is that bad," Rohan said. "But it's almost certain part of the wall will have to be removed after the bees are gone."

More expense. More repairs. Amelia's shoulders slumped at the thought. She spoke without thinking. "Had I known Ramsay House was in such terrible condition, I wouldn't have moved the family to Hampshire. I shouldn't have taken the solicitor's word that the house was habitable. But I was in such a hurry to remove Leo from London—and I wanted so much for all of us to make a new start?

"You're not responsible for everything. Your brother is an adult. So are Winnifred and Poppy. They agreed with your decision, didn't they?"

"Yes, but Leo wasn't in his right mind. He still isn't. And Win is frail, and?

"You like to blame yourself, don't you? Come walk with me."

She set her empty wine cup at the corner of the stall, feeling light-headed. The second cup of wine had been a mistake. And going anywhere with Rohan, with night deepening and revelry all around them, would be yet another. But as she looked into his hazel eyes, she felt absurdly reckless. Just a few stolen minutes... she couldn't resist the lawless mischief of his smile. "My family will worry if I don't rejoin them soon."

"They know you're with me."

"That's why they'll worry," she said, making him laugh. They paused at a table bearing a collection of magic lanterns, small embossed tin lamps with condensing lenses at the front. There was a slot for a hand-painted glass slide just behind the lens. When the lamp was lit, an image would be projected on a wall. Rohan insisted on buying one for Amelia, along with a packet of slides.

"But it's a child's toy," she protested, holding the lantern by its wire handle. "What am I to do with it?"

"Indulge in pointless entertainment. Play. You should try it sometime."

"Playing is for children, not adults."

"Oh, Miss Hathaway," he murmured, leading her away from the table. "The best kind of playing is for adults."

They hemmed the edge of the crowd, weaving in and out like an embroiderer's needle, until finally they drifted free of the torchlight and movement and music, and reached the dark, luminous quiet of a beech grove.

"Are you going to tell me why you had that silver seal from Westcliff's study?" he asked.

"I would rather not, if you don't mind."

"Because you're trying to protect Beatrix?" Her startled glance cut through the shadows.

"How did you ... that is, why did you mention my sister?"

"The night of the supper party, Beatrix had the time and opportunity. The question is, why did she want it?"

"Beatrix is a good girl," Amelia said quickly. "A wonderful girl. She would never deliberately do anything wrong, and—you didn't tell anyone about the seal, did you?"

"Of course not." His hand touched the side of her face. "Easy, hummingbird. I wouldn't betray your secrets. I'm your friend. I think..." A brief, electrifying pause. "In another lifetime, we would be more than friends."

Her heart turned in a painful revolution behind her ribs. "There's no such thing as another lifetime. There can't be."

"Why not?"

"Occam's razor."

He was silent as if her answer had surprised him, and then a wondering laugh slipped from his throat. 'The medieval scientific principle?"

"Yes. When formulating a theory, eliminate as few assumptions as possible. In other words, the simplest explanation is the most likely."

"And that's why you don't believe in magic or fate or reincarnation? Because they're too complicated, theoretically speaking?"

"Yes."

"How did you learn about Occam's razor?"

"My father was a medieval scholar." She shivered as she felt his hand glide along the side of her neck. "Sometimes we studied together."

Rohan pried the wire handle of the magic lantern from her shaky grip, and set it near their feet. "Did he also teach you that the complicated explanations are sometimes more accurate than the simple ones?"

Amelia shook her head, unable to speak as he took her shoulders, fitting her against himself with extreme care. Her pulse ran riot. She shouldn't allow him to hold her. Someone might see, even secreted in the shadows as they were. But as her muscles drew in the warm pressure of his body, the pleasure of it made her dizzy, and she stopped caring about anyone or anything outside his arms.

Rohan's fingertips drifted with stunning delicacy over her throat, behind her ear, pushing into the satiny warmth of her hair. "You are an interesting woman, Amelia."

Gooseflesh rose wherever his breath touched. "I can't f-fathom why you would think so."

His playful mouth traced the wing of her brow. "I find you thoroughly, deeply interesting. I want to open you like a book and read every page." A smile curled the corners of his lips as he added huskily, "Footnotes included." Feeling the stiffness of her neck muscles, he coaxed the tension out of them, kneading lightly. "I want you. I want to lie with you beneath constellations and clouds and shade trees."

Before she could answer, he covered her mouth with his. She felt a jolt of heat, her blood igniting, and she could no more withhold her response than stop her own heart from beating. She reached up to his hair, the beautiful ebony locks curling slightly over her fingers. Touching his ear, she found the faceted diamond stud in the lobe. She fingered it gently, then followed the taut satin skin down to the edge of his collar. His breath roughened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue penetrating in silken demand.