A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,155

disappointed me. But I’ll take him now.”

At the sound of Marco’s voice coming from the doors to the garden everyone turned to see her childhood friend standing in the room. His red, full-sleeved shirt and the patterned head scarf tied around his head above that single, distinctive eyebrow made him look every inch the Lord of Egypt. A very alive Lord of Egypt.

Deserting Thomas where he stood—for no matter how he had complained, he had suffered only a flesh wound and didn’t need all her sympathy—Marguerite raced across the room and launched herself into the Gypsy’s arms. “William said he killed you.”

“Not me, my sister. It was Giorgio he shot. And one shot would never be enough to force the life from such a clever rascal as that infant, although I was kept busy tending to him, allowing the earl to slip past us.” He walked over to Laleham’s lifeless body and, after staring down dispassionately for a moment, spit on it. “That’s for Giorgio,” he said before giving the body a kick. “And that’s for Geoffrey.”

He then turned to Thomas, smiling, as if forgetting that the Earl of Laleham lay dead just behind him. “Giorgio says for you to think about a Gypsy wedding. He’d like three goats and a fat sow for our sister’s bride price, as he has decided he’s owed something for having taken a ball in his shoulder. It’s only a small hole, but Giorgio is insistent. Three goats and one fat sow. Me? I ask only to dance with my sister one last time.”

Marguerite felt tears stinging her eyes and looked to Thomas, wondering what he would say to such an idea.

“Sir Gilbert?” Thomas asked. “Arc you agreeable to Marco’s suggestion? This might not be the best time to apply to you for her hand, but I do very much want to marry your granddaughter.”

“Please, Grandfather,” Marguerite pleaded. “And you wouldn’t be left here alone. Donovan has already told me he would be delighted for you to visit him in Philadelphia for as long as you wish—and even see a red Indian while you’re there. Finch is welcome as well, if he would like.”

“Don’t let yourself get nudged into this, my son. She’s not an easy creature to live with, you know,” Sir Gilbert said, looking to Finch for confirmation. The butler grinned his agreement. “She’s headstrong, willful, stubborn, and has the temper of a hedgehog. A rare handful.”

“Why, you horrible old man,” Marguerite exclaimed as Thomas began to laugh. “I ought to cut off your gin for a fortnight!”

“See what I mean?” Sir Gilbert asked smugly. “Hey, there, Marco. Where are you going?”

The Gypsy had removed the blade, wiped it on his breeches, and returned it to Donovan before lifting the earl’s lifeless form up and over his shoulder. He and his burden were already heading in the direction of the gardens.

Marco turned to look at everyone in turn, his expression solemn. “This is a time of happiness, and it should not be hindered by the continued presence of this lump of offal. I’m taking him where he belongs.”

“A bit of fuel to feed your fire, Marco?” Thomas asked as Marguerite led him to her grandfather’s leather chair, wishing the stupid, brave man would sit down before he fell down. “The poor earl perished in a fire. Terrible pity. Such a sad loss. Yes, that would be easier than having to call in the local authorities and answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?”

“I didn’t hear that, my friend, because you didn’t ask it,” Marco said, smiling. “For many years the Rom have been welcomed here, when we are welcome very few places. A dank gray mist that has lain too long on the land is now being burnt away, never to be seen again, and the sun will soon shine down on all of us once more. That’s enough for me. It should be enough for you.”

“It is, Marco, it is,” Marguerite said earnestly, pushing Thomas into the soft chair. It would take her years to explain the logic of the Gypsies to him, and now was not the time to begin. “He—none of us—will be asking anything else. Go with God, Marco. And thank you.”

The Gypsy nodded, then slipped off the way he had come, leaving Dooley to murmur quietly, “I’d give my eyes to tell Bridget’s ma about this. But then she’d never believe me anyway, now would she?”

Later, much later, once Thomas’s wound had been properly cleaned and bandaged